


Play Your Cards Close to Your Chest

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (following tags only for the last chapter), 5+1, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Food, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Original Character(s), Profanity, Rating May Change, Smoking, alcohol consumption, anxiety attack, as in food comes into contact with people, college au/flashback, ocs made up for foggy's family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Foggy pranks Matt and one time Matt gets him back!</p><p>Set in their college days. Inspired by that anecdote Foggy tells Karen about pranking Matt that one time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round #1

A♣ K♣ Q♦ J♠ 10♠

|Royal Straight|

 

The wind roars down the tree lined avenue, the leaves threatening to fly loose. Matt wedges open the glass door to the stairwell, his skin crawling at the temperature difference. The wind slams the door shut behind him, the noise bouncing against the concrete walls, travelling upward but with no release, trapped by closed doors and windows. It’s stuffy in the enclosed area, sweat beads on Matt’s forehead as he begins to clamber up the stairs. His arms sag, muscles tired, he drags his gym bag against the wall.

As he edges closer to his level, he can’t help but filter through the sounds, sifting through for the one that had been troubling him. His knuckles throb as he pinpoints her. He must not listen. He shouldn’t eavesdrop on her, crying into her pillow. Not the first time, likely not the last. He had felt a moment of solace when she spoke to student services, but days passed and the blip on his map became as loud as ever. His teeth clench because the student body pledging to protect fellow students have done nothing. His blood boils because she is not alone in her horror and yet the perpetrator walks free, without a care in the world.

At the door to the hallway, palm spread out on the glass, he pushes through. With each step across the dried carpet, his body becomes tense, fingers locking, legs clenching, shoulders jarring. The blip bears closer, an alarm rings when it’s within feet. He seethes, the blip and the wreckage only a few brackets of brick apart. He could do something about it. He could politely knock on the door, wreak havoc within. It could be done and Matt needs it to be done, the skin on his bones pleading for contact of the violent kind. Skin splitting, muscles tearing, just desserts delivered to bloodied jaw.

The ultra-violence within him makes his stomach lurch, a wretch that pulls him towards the bathrooms. He knows where it comes from, the source, his father. He knows he needs to let it out, isolate it from himself, prevent it from becoming a part of him, a part of his soul. That’s what the gym trips are for. Doesn’t help when there’s an inevitable aggravation on the way home.

The bathrooms are empty, quiet buzzing of fluorescent lights, the architecture suffering the plights of brutalism. He taps into a little shower stall, plops his gym bag down on the small bench. Peeling off his sweaty shirt, it’s like peeling back an outer layer of skin. He takes it slow, he never could rip the band-aid right off. He slips his shirt over his head, bundles it up then shoves it in his open bag. Perching on the bench he unties his shoes and toes them off, slips out of his pants, then moves all of his possessions into the corner of the stall, knowing full well they’ll get wet anyway. He clocks on the water, heat first. It burns. He can feel the steam rolling off his body, the sweat fizzing off him, oil in a pan. Each splash of hot water stains his skin, heat matching anger, he punches the tiles for the skin split, for that sound, that tearing sensation. He does it against tiles in lieu of human flesh. Not the same thing. Zero results except the interesting taste of copper lining the copper pipes, a variation of liquid and solid, both man made but consisting of elements vastly different. Synonyms of a place holder.

He adds cold water to the mix, leaning into the warmth gushing over his wounds. The buzzing of the lights hypnotises his mind and in a trance like state, meditative, he calms. Lets the anger dissolve like the sweat filled steam, lets it run off him down the drain with the twin tastes of copper. The need to enact mass violence reducing to the bare minimum, taking cues from Bruce Banner himself. He hears the pain in the world, in his community, in his home and when nothing more can be done there’s always one more thing to be done. But his Father did not want his son to be like him. And so the routine of rage and reduction continues without sign of breaking off. They say some self-scheduling helps the soul move on, helps the self cycle through life, albeit cyclical in nature.

Switching to cool water only he shivers, freezing himself out. The cold spits on him like needles, jerking him into reality. He kicks off the water and reaches for his towel, damp of course. He dries himself, then pulls on clean shorts. He tries carrying everything at once, his towel and bag over his shoulder, his shoes tucked under his arm, a soldier ready to move out.

Crusty carpet crunches under his bare feet as he walks down the hall to his room, the carpet fibres irritating his skin. The rooms he passes each contain two heartbeats, their owners sleeping or studying, calm or aware. Their emotions tell truths through the pattern of their heartbeats, spikes on a line disfiguring their lies. Foggy is awake inside, expectant, excited. Matt walks into his room, the soles of his feet treading onto treated wood.

Foggy repositions himself on his bed, the mattress swinging out slightly from the feet slipping over the floor. In the air Matt detects the scent of Marci, potent signifying freshness, of a very recent visit. Matt drops his things by his desk and reaches his bed, sitting down on top of the covers. The breath of violence is a shiver down his bare back. He toes the back of his left foot with his numb left, frowning as he listens to Foggy’s tell-tale signs.

“What? What is it?” Matt questions, his voice crackling. The change of atmosphere unsettles him. The acoustics of the hallway were of clashing bodies and violence, in his head anyway, and here in their shared room, rather than being an undeniably friendly environment, the air is laced with awkwardness and kept secrets, perhaps the courting of Marci?

Foggy clears his throat before saying, “you’re up late.”

“So are you,” Matt replies.

Foggy grunts in reply and Matt kicks back his sheets, climbing into bed. Papers shuffle on top of Foggy’s blankets, the typical way in which Foggy studies for exams, in comfort and in shambles. Matt hears his friend shuffling through them, looking for a particular page. In the midst of his shuffling papers slip off and Foggy lurches to grab them, shifting the bed across the floor. He tries to catch the sheets but this only makes more papers slip out of his piles, leaving Foggy to frantically grab at the papers. The bed slides across more and in one lurch, Foggy manages to leap off the bed, dropping himself on the ground.

Matt throws the sheets over his head and laughs mercilessly.

“I heard that Matt!” Foggy says shrilling from the floor.

Flipping the blankets away from his face Matt shushes Foggy, “keep your voice down, it’s late!”

“Yeah and you should be asleep,” Foggy says as wheels the mattress back to where it should be, and climbing on top, “mister, I’m-so-good-I-don’t-even-need-to-study.”

“Hey, I study harder than you!”

“Exactly my point. You’re so good at it you don’t even need to cram! Oh shit, oh no,” Foggy groans. He bangs the side of his laptop, “the wifi stopped working. Dude, can you check if it’s working on yours? I _need_ this page to load!”

“But you’ve got all those print outs,” Matt protests.

“Want me to print out a million dollars worth of academic journals just for this one exam? ‘Cause I’ll do it, I’ll go down to the library right now just because my buddy wouldn’t check if the internet is working because you know, it could just be my laptop. Troubleshooting 101 dude.”

Matt replicates Foggy’s groan, “I should be asleep!” but he slides out of bed anyway, “you know, you probably would have more time for studying if you didn’t think it was a good idea to move all our furniture down the hall.”

“Oh my god,” Foggy laughs, “but wasn’t it great? Don’t tell me you didn’t love it.”

“Yeah, it was pretty great,” Matt agrees, holding onto the edge of his desk, “and I said this before Foggy, but I want to say it again, I really appreciate… I mean, you treat me like-“

“Yada, yada,” Foggy interrupts, “I get it, I’m the best friend you’ve ever had. Now you gonna check the wifi for me or what pal?”

Matt purses his lips, “alright, not sure if this is going to help.”

He starts up his computer. Foggy seems a bit… hasty. Matt writes it off as stress, but it does seem odd to him that his friend hasn’t mentioned anything about Marci yet. The guy usually can’t wait to tell him about his adventures with women. He’s thinking about this as he waits for his computer to boot up and it’s because he’s used to technology working without any hitches that he completely overlooks that moment’s pause before the log-in chime should play.

Very suddenly, at top volume, a horrible wailing noise cuts through the night. Matt clamps his hands to his ears. Their neighbours bang on the wall. The wailing turns into gargling, a painful kind of shrill call, like that of some kind of monstrous bear. Matt stumbles backward, falling on his ass. He presses his palms on his ears, hoping to deafen himself. Beyond his bones and muscles, he hears complaints arise throughout their dormitory. His legs locked in place, his hands unable to move from his ears. He breathes unevenly, he’s never been unable to control himself like this.

Matt swears and the weird noise coming from his computer is so amplified against all other sound processes, in-flows and out-flows surrendered, he doesn’t know if he made a noise at all. Foggy touches his shoulder and in a second the noise stops.

“Oh my god,” Matt breathes.

His head pounds with his heart, copper on his tongue from biting too hard. He shakes and feels Foggy’s hands on his head, patting back his fringe.

“Matt, it’s over now.”

Matt drops his hands, lays them turned up either side of him, his ears still ringing, “what _was_ that?”

“It was… a prank. Marci helped me install this sound byte on your computer in place of the regular start up noise. It was meant to be good but I think I messed up.”

Matt shakes his head, “but what was that _noise_?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s Chewbacca.” Foggy states.

“Of course!” Matt barks out laughter, leaning his head on the frame of his bed.

“You’re not mad?”

Matt chuckles, listens to the echo of his voice through the springs of his bed, “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Their neighbours bang against the wall, yelling obscenities.

Foggy sighs in relief, plonking himself down beside Matt, “I really thought I’d messed up for a second there. I mean, who cares about _them_ , but you actually looked like you were in pain.”

Scratching his head, Matt says, “I mean, yeah, it was _loud_. And unexpected. And Foggy, it was _good_.”

“Better than the moved furniture?”

“Mmmm…” Matt hums, resting his head on Foggy’s shoulder.

“Really? I’ll do better next time. I swear it!” Foggy announces, then adds, “Oh, I just saluted.”

Matt laughs, shifting closer to his friend. He feels the rise and fall of Foggy’s breathing, Matt’s damp hair messing with Foggy’s long hair draped over his shoulders. He tucks his arm between Foggy’s and locks him in place, smiling.

“I needed this.”

“You needed to hear Chewbacca wail at excruciating decibels?” Foggy quips.

“No,” Matt laughs, “I just had a really rough day. The darkness is always there but it’s been getting to me more than usual, it’s harder to ignore and I’m worried I’ll do something I’ll regret. But when I’m with you, Foggy,” he squeezes Foggy’s arm, “you make the darkness go away.”

Matt’s expecting some witty comeback but all he receives is the quickening of Foggy’s pulse, a sharp inhalation of breath. Foggy hesitates, then he takes Matt’s hand, runs his fingers over the wounds, then interlocks their fingers.

“You’re so important to me Matt,” Foggy breathes.

He drops a kiss on Matt’s hair, thumbing the bruises swelling on Matt’s knuckles. Matt begins to register their proximity, the heat between them, not of anger or fear but of something else, of friendship, or love, and Matt blinks, peeling himself away from Foggy. A gulf bores down between them, cool air drafting in from underneath his bed and he retracts his hands, folds them under the back of his knees.

Foggy questions him, his face turned away from Matt, “where do you go so late?”

“The gym, you know that,” Matt mumbles.

“But it closes at midnight,” Foggy says, his voice cracking at first, then he finds courage, “is there some kind of college fight club that I don’t know about?”

Matt flinches, drawing his legs to his chest. Foggy doesn’t have to know that he monitors criminal behaviour at their university in his after hours, his friend doesn’t need to know that he’s gotten so close, on numerous occasions, to actually punching someone up. But he prevents his fists from flying in place of the honesty of working with the law, of justice dealt through systems and regulations, even if he knows kicking ass will solve the problem faster. It’s a conversation he’ll have with Foggy at some point, hopefully before it gets too bad for him to control, but there’s a time and place for everything.

“First rule about fight club, don’t talk about fight club,” Matt says, relaxing, stretching his legs out.

Foggy holds his breath and Matt’s unsure how to take that exactly, “I should have expected that answer. But I’ll accept anything to explain these away,” Foggy says, playfully slapping Matt’s abs.

Matt grins bashfully, then says, “hey, let’s try and get some sleep. Exam starts in a few hours.”

Foggy groans, “ugh, I still have more to study.”

Matt pushes himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head, “falling further and further behind huh?”

“I just can’t win,” Foggy says, dragging himself back to his bed.

Matt climbs back into his, listens to Foggy’s heart. He tells himself that the signatures are new, that they’re probably one-offs, but he’d be lying to himself. He’s noticed the way Foggy’s heart beats for him since they day they met and what has he done, strung him along? He’s stuck in the midway point of doing something about it, doing something to prevent it. A cold war within him. Violence vs. Love. War vs. Peace. The in-between a cyclone of confusion and careless thought to pragmatics, pulling him this way or the other, but never definitive.

“Hey Foggy, can you make sure an alarm is set?” Matt asks before sleep overcomes him.

“Oh, I’ve already set one,” He says slyly, rubbing his hands together, “ _good_ night!”


	2. Round #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy invites Matt to the Nelson Family's birthday get together, which means meeting Foggy's family properly for the first time. He's admittedly nervous, and for some reason Foggy's family keeps making a big deal about him being there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was trying to find out if Foggy had any family members mentioned in the comics (because i haven't read them) but i couldn't find any info on the wiki page about him. To supplement, i've made up family members, which is honestly not something i usually like doing, but anyway. Hopefully my characterisation of the Nelsons are tolerable!

K♥ J♥ 9♥ 5♥ 4♥

|Royal Flush|

 

Matt perches on an arm chair, the cushioning worn out, accentuating the creek of the rusty springs when Matt tries to sit more comfortably. He toys with the hem of his sweater, running his fingers over the patterned wool. The room swells with conversation. The walls are a balloon, more and more helium threatening to stretch the walls too thin, to pop. Matt’s usually fine with processing an abundance of noise information, he’s used to it from St Agnes, from school and college. Only thing is, those places are all familiar to him. Here at the Nelson family home, packed with Foggy’s family members, immediate and distant, in a house he doesn’t know yet, well, it’s a bit much.

He takes a sip of his beverage, some kind of Nelson family recipe concocted for special occasions. It’s Foggy’s birthday and Matt doesn’t know where his friend even is. Lost somewhere in the throng of people congregating for not only Foggy’s birthday, but an Uncle’s, two Aunts’ and a grandmother. A joint celebration held in Spring, the flourishing of family. He catches names here and there, fills out his idea of Foggy’s extensive family tree, but the voices are too similar and his mind is too hazy to pay attention to the differences, to the manner of enunciation across generations, to process the movement of youth and elder. He grips his cup of beer, plays with the hem of his sweater and braces himself for the frontier breached, for the walls to pop.

“Who’re you then?” A man questions as he plonks himself down on the arm chair beside Matt.

Matt blinks. He blanks out the background noise and highlights the man, bones as old and creaky as the spring of the arm chairs. “Uh um, I’m Matt,” he stutters, the plastic cup in his hand swaying in his grip, beer splashing on his knee.

“Oh yes, I heard little Franklin brought a bud along, it’s a wonder he didn’t introduce us. The name’s Roy, pleased to meet you,” Roy says, extending his hand.

Matt grips his cup with his left hand and his right reaches to shake Roy’s, dancing through the air briefly before finding the other man’s hand. Roy laughs as they shake, a deep jolly laugh that seems to be a shared family trait.

“Now what on Earth are you doing over here in the corner all by yourself then son?” Roy asks, leaning in.

“I don’t know, I uh, um,” Matt lifts his drink, “Foggy said he’d be back.”

Roy grunts, “Nelsons never abandon Nelsons,” he pauses, then speaks gruffly, “You might not know this but this is a strictly family only event son, it’s _tradition_. You must be pretty important to Franklin if he thought it was a good idea to invite you.”

Matt feels his neck become hot, his ears burning, the muscles in his legs tensing. He knew it was a bad idea to come. He was more than happy to celebrate his buddy’s birthday but he had no idea it was going to mean with quite so many people, all of them so eager to get to know him. Or otherwise accuse him of not belonging. He scans for a door leading preferably outside, a door leading anywhere without people is also acceptable. But heartbeats drum in an orchestra of drunk Nelsons, bodies bumping up against the rubber of the balloon walls, blocking off the exits.

“Nelson or not, there’s no sense in you sitting there all night,” Roy declares. He gets to his feet. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Matt hesitates. He could easily refuse the guy but the last thing he wants to do is offend Foggy’s family. Roy extends his hand and Matt takes it, using the weight of the man to hoist him to his feet. He convinces himself that if he just goes along with what Roy wants maybe he’ll be able to find Foggy, or find a way out. He doesn’t let go of Roy, clutching onto Roy’s upper arm, plastic cup firmly in his left hand.

Roy seems stiff at first, but he moves into the crowd with Matt and relaxes as he parades Matt around to various family members. Everyone seems to want to shake his hand and Matt has to quickly discard of the cup, though he wishes he could hold onto it for security. As he’s being introduced to Foggy’s family he tries to ignore the spinning room and focus on matching name to voice. He tries to remain humble too but as the minutes stretch on and the shriek of the balloon stretching wears on his ears, children playing and screaming, adults laughing and shouting, drunkenness, rowdiness. His breathing quickens, his radar sense becoming patchy, hands touching hands, on his shoulder, around his waist.

“Uncle Roy, what did you do to him?” Foggy growls, voice slicing through the swamp.

He feels himself moving, sloshing through the masses and Roy defends himself, “we were just having some fun!”

“Uncle Roy always gets his way on his birthday,” Foggy mutters.

 

-

 

The air shifts from heavy heat, from thick carpet and tightly packed bodies, to cool tiles and the night air drafting through an open window. The cacophony of human sounds muffled by a closed door, Matt drops to his knees, hands pressing against tiles, startlingly cold. Foggy rubs Matt’s shoulders gently, offers to get a glass of water.

“Don’t go,” Matt coughs, catching his breath.

Foggy kneels beside his friend, waits. “I’m sorry I keep doing this to you,” but the noise is static and incoherent while Matt recovers.

Matt tastes soap and the lingering breaths laced with alcohol. He’s out of the way of strangers and the walls solidify around him, he becomes aware of the things around him, magnifying the unique vibrations of the items around him. He taps his fingers on the tiles, feels for the bath matt and draws himself on top, leaning against the back of the built in bath. He rebuilds the world around him, the bathroom clicking into place, the hallway that leads down to the loungeroom where the family has congregated.

“I’m sorry Foggy, I got a bit… overwhelmed.”

Foggy digs his hands into his long hair, scratching vigorously, then drops them by his side, “maybe this was a bad idea. My family can be a bit much.”

“No they’re nice, I like them. I just, there’s so many, and, I only know you.”

Foggy sighs and sits next to Matt, his body heat warming him up in opposition to the coolness of the bathroom tiles. “Shit, man I didn’t mean to take so long. Ma wanted me to see my Gran and oh my god, I love her but she’s always got her two cents to say about anything and _everything._ Can’t be impolite to a Nelson, especially not on their birthday.”

“I hope I haven’t offended anyone.”

Foggy nudges Matt with his elbow, “course not. Dude seriously, don’t worry about it. We can be stubborn people but we’re pretty understanding too.”

Matt hugs his sides, smiling. But a thought crossed his mind and he has to ask, “Foggy, I’m sorry if I’ve… I mean, I think I should go in the morning, back to Manhattan –“

“Are you kidding? Did you literally not listen to what I just said?”

“I’m not very fun and well, I’m not family.”

“Dude ignore whatever the hell Uncle Roy said to you. He’s as thick as the meat he cuts. Besides, I want you here. After all, Nelson’s get what they want on their birthdays,” Foggy says sarcastically, “but seriously, if you want to go back to college, by all means. Literally don’t know what you’re going to do there without me though.”

“True,” Matt laughs. He sticks out his tongue, making Foggy laugh too. “Guess I’m stuck here then, shall we uh, re-join your family?”

Foggy sits beside Matt, “whenever you’re ready.”

Matt nods and takes advantage of their solitude to ensure he’s fully prepared. In the meantime Foggy turns around and starts picking up various items he finds around the bathtub rim. He tells Matt about the toys he finds, the names of the hairy trolls and the business of the boats and the adventures of a rubber ducky. Matt listens, amused by Foggy’s youthful imagination, and he listens to Foggy’s voice, to his little breathy breaks between spoken words, to the ‘oo’s and ‘ah’s over the toys, old and new. He pictures his friend leaning over the bath, his long hair draping over his back, dipping into the empty bath. Foggy laughs about something that Matt hadn’t been listening to because he had been focused on the enunciation of Foggy’s words, on the way he moves his body… trying not to think of how he wishes he could run his fingers over the little bumps in Foggy’s spine, over the flick of his shoulder blades, learn how his friend’s back dips and bends, feel just how long his hair is, how much stubble has grown into beard. He wants to run his fingers over Foggy’s fingertips, his knuckles, across the palm of his hands. Over his arms and over his chest, down his… He’s thought it before but he’s never let it go this far, sitting beside his friend in Foggy’s family home, and only a _little_ bit drunk. The cold war draws into action, the flip of a coin, move forward or back.

Blushing furiously he draws his legs to his chest. He awkwardly taps Foggy’s foot with his own, “I’m ready,” he squeaks.

Foggy stretches then stands up. He tries to help Matt up but he brushes his friend off, preferring to stand up on his own. Foggy goes to lead the way out of the bathroom but is practically barrel rolled straight back inside by a charging person.

“Foggy, God, I’ve been looking everywh- ooh, what were you _doing_ in here?”

Foggy, staggering, tries to nudge the girl away, “Holly you shouldn’t run around like that. You’re not a kid anymore.”

Holly laughs, “but running is _so_ fun. Hey, is this your _friend_?” she leans in close to Foggy and whispers what is meant to be inaudible to Matt, “must be a pretty special guy if you let him come to the _family_ party.”

Holly cackles and Foggy tries to push her aside, speaking sternly, “leave it Holly.”

Holly lurches back as Foggy tries to push her away again. She perches in the doorway, bouncing on her feet, “come on losers. They’re starting up karaoke,” she sings.

Holly promptly disappears down the hall.

“Sorry about that Matty, that was my sister. Can you believe she’s _older_ than me?”

Matt blinks, “I thought she was a teenager.”

Foggy laughs, “she pretty much is. Come on,” Foggy hooks his arm around Matt’s, leading him down the hallway, “Nelsons doing Karaoke is something not to be missed.”

 

-

 

Matt sits on a fold out chair, glad to be able to sit down again. Foggy stands beside him, laughing and singing along to the tracks his family members choose. Matt sips on more beer, needing the confidence to get up and join in. Just because Matt’s good at hearing doesn’t mean he’s good at singing! But knowing himself, he’s going to end up on that stage at some point, and it kind of helps listening to just how bad everyone else is at singing too.

Amidst the singing and howling of the crowd, he hears hastened footsteps and he braces himself. Holly dashes over to him and ruffles Matt’s hair, “you gonna do a round, handsome?”

“Uh, in a bit,” Matt replies, smoothing his hair.

Foggy shoos his sister away but she rounds them both, insisting on pestering them, “I think me and your _friend_ here should do a duet!”

“I can’t read the lyrics,” Matt says quickly.

“Oh shit, I forgot. Well we can do one we both know!”

“I don’t know any duets,” Matt says. He’s not trying to be rude, he’s just being honest.

The person on stage finishes their song and in the tradition of Nelson karaoke, she names who’s to sing the next song, “Alright, next up’s _Drops of Jupiter_ , and the singer is…. Foggy! Come on up here cuz!”

The crowd roars Foggy’s name, cheering and egging him on.

“Oh my god they know me too well, it’s so embarrassing. Dude, help me out with this one. You know the song right?”

“Yeah…” Matt says, thinking of the first time he met Foggy, the familiar song playing in the background.

Holly punches Foggy’s arm, “hey you can’t take him with you, it’s not even a duet!”

“It’s my birthday!” Foggy shouts and he takes Matt’s hand, pulling him up toward the stage.

Matt hears Holly complain about fairness as he’s swept away, the chatter of Foggy’s family forming into an excited buzz. The song starts and Foggy launches into the lyrics, leaving Matt to pick up what he can remember of it, which is not much, and he ends up humming the tune instead. Foggy laughs as he sings, swaying, passionately clenching his fists when the chorus starts. Matt can’t stop grinning the whole time, the weight of eyes on him alleviated by the sheer jolliness of the crowd, of them singing along just as loud and obnoxiously as Foggy.

Afterwards Foggy slings his arm over Matt and takes him to see Foggy’s other siblings, who by this point in the night are blind drunk. They tell wild stories. Foggy’s oldest brother, Peter, tells tales of spontaneous trips to Paris and Cairo, of drunken destruction and devious theft and of that one time he woke up with the face of the town’s centre clock in their bedroom. And as Matt gets more and more tipsy, hanging off Foggy like a sloth, he starts to feel slightly nostalgic of his time at St Agnes, surrounded by so many different types of people, with equally as wild or just as dull stories to tell, of various backgrounds and of lives they tell they want to live, all kept together in one building, tied together as one family. He never kept up with anyone, he never had reunions like this. He’s not sure how many orphans would want to reunite with their fellow orphans, reflect on the life they had there. Not everyone loved it, not everyone fit in. That’s life right, that’s family.

And here by Foggy’s side, he feels somewhat at home. Getting to know the family that loves Foggy just as much as he does. He drinks more beer, he snacks on more mini sausage rolls and party pies that seem to appear right when his stomach grumbles. He listens, he tastes, he smells Foggy’s unwashed hair as he drops his head on his friend’s shoulder. The world spins, a whirlpool of senses, his clarity going down the drain. And the last thing he remembers is the lip of a vodka bottle touching his mouth, a crowd chanting ‘chug’, and the feel of the burn as liquid gushes down his throat.

 

-

 

The silence is numbing. It feels like he’s been asleep for days. Muffled noises spike against the quiet, a shuffling of feet, the scratch of bristles sweeping across carpet, the clatter of glass, rustling plastic. Matt tries to move but his bones are stiff, his head throbbing with the most horrible hang over. Scents of maple waft over him, of flour and eggs and sugar, of mixture burning on a pan. He licks his lips, he could kill for a maple covered pancake right now.

He tries to sit up, his body feeling unusually heavy. It takes a concentrated effort to even move and instantly he regrets it. A mountain of beer bottles roll off him, clattering on the linoleum floor. He tries to stand up, pushing away his outfit of bottles, splashing remnants of beer on him, on the floor. The sound is a barrage of bullets on his soft mind, poking through the numbness. Matt can practically see every shard as bottles crash to the ground, splintering, breaking, shattering across the floor. Each fragment an individual piece, weighing on his mental map.

Matt staggers as he stands up, glass crunching underneath his boots. He slips on a pool of beer and flails wildly for something to hold onto, finding a set of cupboard doors to catch himself on. They swing open when he puts his full weight on them, causing him to stumble forward. The wind sweeps through the house, a soft whisper bouncing against unknown furniture, and Matt follows the airflow outside. He catches a whiff of perfume, frangipani and citrus, and as he stumbles out onto the lawn he feels the afternoon sun on his skin, warm for a brief moment before it gently fades, clouds drawing across the sky. He shivers, the clouds an invisible dampener, stifling his senses.

The source of the frangipani perfume moves around Foggy’s backyard, the metal of a small spade digging at dirt and weeds. “Don’t just stand there and gawk, come and help me.”

Matt cocks his head to the side, isolates the speaker and shuffles toward her, the dew in the grass wetting his boots. A gloved hand pats his bare ones, tugs him to the grassy floor bordered by inset bricks, and places a small spade in his hands.

“Usually I clean up the whole house before anyone even gets up and they don’t even think about helping out with the gardening,” she begins, wheezing from a mixture of her gardening and from many years of smoking, “My kids see, they forget gardening’s a chore too, and I’m always out here tending to it. So I was wondering last night, if I stopped doing all the chores, would they understand it’s me who gets it all done?”

She digs at the ground, grunting as she works, “bet they just think they don’t even make a mess. That it magically goes away. Well I’m sick of it, so I haven’t done a thing for them inside. Course, I actually quite like gardening so here I am, keeping my hands busy. Now, just put your hand on the bottom of the weed above the dirt,” she takes Matt’s hand and lets him wrap his fingers around the strong plant, “you feel it? These weeds, they’re true bastards alright. They’re strong as hell and they take a good digging to get them out. Got to put a lot of pressure on it, yes like that dear. Put the spade a bit straighter, then _push_ , yes that’s right. Now push across to get under the roots, and up, yes you’ve got it.”

She moves Matt’s hand and helps him place it on a pile of weeds. She then helps Matt find another weed, letting him get a sense of the plant, the toughness of the root, the spikiness of the leaf. “They’re weeds, true, but they’re not entirely useless. Some of them, like this one, you can dig out and use as mulch so long as you cut out the base. Nature’s beautiful like that, you just got to know what you can and can’t re-use.”

She sits back on her heels, “I’m Sara by the way, Foggy’s mother. We sung together last night, remember?” she laughs, holding her hand to her heart, “oh dear, you probably don’t. You were pretty gone by then. Probably a good thing because I’m awful at singing! But so are you!” She wheezes, laughing uncontrollably in that deep, jolly Nelson laugh.

Blushing, Matt digs out another weed, placing it with the growing pile. He’d rather not remember how he embarrassed himself. He quietly works alongside Sara to weed her garden but she seems to grow more and more impatient, a tendency to bout swells of laughter here and there. She invites him to come along to their annual camping trip, an invitation which is probably meant to be sincere but comes out sounding like a joke, sounding sarcastic as Sara giggles out every word she says. He’s not sure whether to believe anything she says, believing her to be slightly drunk still, maybe, but he enjoys passing the time with her, working on something she values.

From inside he hears a familiar voice:

“Aw he already got up! Where is he?”

And then shouts, “Matt! Matt where are you buddy?”

Sara calls out, “here, he’s with me!” cackling afterwards.

Foggy steps outside and comes over to them.

“Oh Foggy,” Sara begins, patting Matt’s leg with a soil covered glove, “I can’t do it. I wasn’t going to say anything about the rubbish but-“

“Ma don’t say it!” Foggy warns.

She tries to hold back laughter, “I can’t take him seriously when he’s got dicks drawn on his face!”

“Ma, I wanted to see how long he could go!” He hisses.

“I’ve got… dicks on my face?” Matt asks quietly.

Sara and Foggy both share a moment’s silence, probably grinning at each other and then they both break out in laughter.

 

-

 

“So what did you think of this one?” Foggy calls from behind the bathroom door.

Matt uses a cloth to wipe off the marker from his face, “what are you talking about?”

“The prank! The bottle mountain!”

Matt doesn’t say anything in reply, allowing Foggy to ramble on. How the guy can have so much to say after drinking probably more than him, Matt will never understand.

“It’s a family tradition,” Foggy begins, “the first to pass out becomes the trash can!”

“I was the first to pass out? How embarrassing,” Matt sighs.

Foggy comes into the bathroom, “you sure were, _light weight_.”

Matt turns around and Foggy immediately starts laughing again.

“I didn’t get it all off did I?”

“I’m pretty good at drawing dicks,” Foggy giggles.

“I’m not sure that’s something you should be proud of,” Matt says, grinning.

Foggy shrugs and takes the cloth from Matt’s hand and wets it with warm water, then starts rubbing it off Matt’s face. Matt leans against the sink, the porcelain cool on his skin, he closes his eyes. His stomach feels sick and his head hurts but it is nice being tended to, and Foggy smells like beer and unwashed hair and someone’s left the lid of the maple syrup open, the sweet taste catching on the drafts through the house. Foggy’s close and in his hangover haze he can feel Foggy’s heartbeat, feel the pulse through foggy’s fingers as he dabs his brow. Matt’s lips twitch and a moment later he feels Foggy’s lips on his, wet and lazy and Matt tentatively touches his face, dragging his thumb over Foggy’s jawline, down to his neck and the pulse, amplified by the point. He leans into Foggy, the warmth of him a pleasant contradiction to the coolness of the bathroom. Foggy drops the cloth, at makes a damp sploshing noise as it hits the tiles, and Matt parts his lips, tonguing into Foggy’s mouth. He feels Foggy’s mouth throb, and with his hands on Foggy’s pulse point, the rapidness of the beat jolts him into reality.

Matt pulls away, slipping to the side of the sink. The cold war continues, coin shows up tails, the roll of a dice commands him to go back three spaces.

Foggy sighs, defeated, “what are we doing here Matt?”

Matt hesitates, he tilts back his head, neck cracking, he repeats Foggy’s words in his mind and it’s such a good question. The wind howls outside the window, frangipani and citrus circulates, the taste of maple and the pockets of soundbytes in the house flicker, a glitch in the framework. But his lack of timely response is enough for Foggy.

“I think you should go back to Manhattan.”


	3. Round #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt returns to college upon request but it doesn't seem like Foggy's going to come back any time soon, or even at all...

J♠ J♥ J♦ A♠ 6♣

|Three of a Kind|

 

Matt wishes there was another way around to his dorm room because he can’t bear to walk past room 297. Two doors down, the room’s empty and likely will be for the rest of the semester. It’s not the absence that he’s sickened about, it’s not the bruises and cuts still healing on his knuckles where he kept punching, over and over. It’s that the source was flushed but the people ruined by the path of the cyclone remain malcontent. As if the room now empty is a problem on its own.

He was only trying to help. To do what needed to be done.

He drags his feet across the carpet as he makes his way down the hall. It feels as if his body is made out of stone, solid and heavy, suffocating him. He’s not going to lie, he’s contemplated waiting until nightfall to climb over the roof and jump into his room through the window. It would save him a lot of grief. But once he passes room 297 the weight lifts from him and the world opens up to him again. The sound of students chatting and laughing, music clashing as one genre tries to remain the loudest, the burnt toast smell that seems to be permanent wafts down from the shared kitchen. Matt gets to his dorm room and in those moments between room 297 and room 312 he felt like everything was normal, everything in place as it should be. But he keys into his room and immediately he knows it’s not.

Because Foggy isn’t back yet.

He hasn’t been back for days. He’s missing class… and the last time Matt talked to him they fought, sort of. He had heard Foggy’s words and packed his things. An exchange of quiet, stubborn remarks, then he left with his back turned, like he knew Foggy probably wanted. Except now it’s been _days_ and Foggy still isn’t back. And Matt worries about Foggy’s grades dropping… and there’s no way for Matt to contact him.

He closes the door behind him, hand still on the handle, his room flickers in his mind. There’s things different, the drawers to Foggy’s dresser hang open, his desk chair moved out slightly, just small changes but Matt’s pretty receptive, he’s not going to overlook them. He opens his door again and crosses the hall to Marci’s. He knocks briefly.

Marci opens the door, she smells of chocolate and coffee, “Oh? Matt, I haven’t seen you in ages, where’ve you been?”

Matt twitches, the taste of copper darts over his tongue, the scent of ripped skin, wet bricks and torn clothes. The hum of machines, infinite beeps, disinfectant, the quiet moans of pain, bandages, starched gowns, dry towels, nurses fussing. The deed has been repaid but the girl, she feels her safety is still not guaranteed. She cries for the patient, fear staining her, the violence has not dissolved her pain.

Matt props his chin on the tip of his stick, “I’ve been around.”

Marci leans on the doorframe and begins snapping a chocolate bar still wrapped, “barely. Do you know how many times I knocked on your door to get you to come out with me? Student services are going to start to think you’ve both dropped out.”

Matt grips his stick, holding the end toward his chest, “Marci…”

Marci continues, beginning to unwrap the chocolate, “You know, one day you’re going to come into your room and find you’ve been moved out. Two strangers sleeping in your beds, they’d probably be more fun than you and Foggy,” then wistfully adds, “I kind of want it to happen now.”

“Marci,” Matt says firmly, “do you know if Foggy’s been back?”

Marci pops a square of chocolate in her mouth and chews it, purposefully waits until she’s swallowed the square until she speaks, “hm, I don’t know, he’s your friend more than mine.”

Matt frowns, “you know that’s not true. You’re a very good friend of his.”

Marci snaps another square off and grins as she quips, “he’s alright I guess,” then she crunches down on the chocolate, the noise a sharp snap in Matt’s ears, “but I fucking hate this Matt. You guys need to sort your shit out so I don’t have to keep acting like some kind of spy with you. I’ve got a life as well. And believe me Matty, mine is _far_ more dramatic than whatever you two have going on.”

Matt blushes. Marci begins to close her door but he holds it back, “wait, can you please just tell me what you know! He hasn’t been back for almost a week now and… and he’s missing classes.”

Marci crosses her arms and sighs dramatically, “ugh, _fine_. Foggy told me that his Mom hurt her back pretty bad and he has to take care of her. But he’d be coming to get some clothes soon. That’s all I know.”

Matt’s shoulders hunch, “Oh, I think he’s just been.”

“ _What_?” Marci gasps, “he didn’t even come see me? See this is why I don’t do favours for you boys, you never pay me back.”

“What did he ask you to do?” Matt presses.

Marci clicks her tongue, “I have his landline. I’ll take you to the telephones when you’re free. Actually, while you’re here, let’s get it over and done with.”

Matt shivers, “no he wouldn’t be home yet.”

“Oh right,” then she sighs deeply, “tomorrow then?”

Matt nods and he thanks Marci. But he knows he shouldn’t make any promises. Back in his room he sits on his bed, thinking about his encounter with the devil. His hands throb, his back sore and his stomach empty on the inside, a dried out shell. For some reason he dreads waking up the next day, dreads going to class, coming back and having to call Foggy. Why did Marci only tell him now? Why after days did she tell him there’s a way to contact his friend? And just like the dread he receives when he walks past room 297, he tries to ignore it, pushes his dread and regret at the back of his mind. Ignores that she’s still unhappy even though he did what he thought he could do for. He ignores the fact that obviously Foggy is trying to avoid Matt, trying to stay away for as long as possible. Did he not want to be contacted? Is that why Foggy gave Marci his number and not him? He shakes his head. Like the girl, he just needs to give the people in his life time. Leave them alone, if that’s what they want. And soon enough things will be back to normal. Let any misdeeds be forgotten with the past.

 

-

 

The quiet of the night helps him identify the strengths and weaknesses of the tiles before he runs over them. Occasionally he miscalculates and a seemingly solid terracotta tile shatters under his weight, the moments of weightlessness jolts pangs of adrenalin into him, propelling him forward. At the crest of the roof toward the west wing of his dormitory, he pauses, mapping out the tiles before him. Only a small way to go now, the rooms full of dread blocked by layers upon layers of plaster and wood and insulation.

He must not listen, he must focus on getting from the roof to his room, clinging onto the gutter and swinging himself down through his window. He’d thought about it so much there wasn’t a way in hell he was going to mess this up. The newspapers weren’t going to read “ _Blind student found with broken legs_ ” because he wasn’t going to fail, he wasn’t going to let room 297 destroy him or let Marci rag on him for standing her up. He wasn’t going to face his responsibilities because he’d rather scale the rooftop than walk down the hall. Punching criminals into a pulp? No problem. Given the opportunity to call his friend back to college? Impossible!

It’s more difficult than he imagined, the drop from the rooftop to his window was a little more… dangerous than he anticipated, but somehow he got in with only an arm’s length scratch down his side. Could have been worse. His landing also wasn’t as graceful as he’d hoped, stirring a few students from sleep. He inspects his scratch, it’s a little deep. He goes over to his desk and from his bag he pulls out bandages. He starts dressing himself and falls into the rhythm of applying first aid.

Absentmindedly he lets his fingers do the work and his mind travels to the breaths of students, most of them asleep, none of them suspecting he’d just entered his room by unconventional means. Marci’s heart signature beats in sleep mode on his map and he wonders if it was even at all necessary to try to avoid her like he did. But it’s for the best, in the end, he’s not ready to talk to Foggy yet. He’s not ready to face that fire. Besides, what’s he meant to say? Is he meant to convince the guy to come back, prevent him from failing his classes?

But why should it be up to him, he thinks to himself as he climbs into bed. Why can’t Foggy let one of his many relatives look after his Mother? He pulls his pillow over his face and screams into it. He too has a mountain of schoolwork to catch up on and all he can think about is Foggy. When is he coming back? Is he okay? Why did he come back for clothes and totally avoid everyone? What’s stopping him from coming back? _Does he miss me as much as I miss him?_

Matt hugs his pillow against his chest, his skin clammy and damp and he probably needs a shower but he’s furious, immobilised by anger at Foggy and intimidation from Marci. He shouldn’t have stood her up. He should have just gone with her, she’d be there with him. What would he say? Marci’s always been good at holding a conversation. She handed this opportunity to him and he – God! Why is he such a wuss when it comes to dealing with his own emotions!

Something cool and slimy suddenly lands on his nose, right on the tip, startling him out of his thoughts. Flustered, he wipes the slimy substance off and it goes goopy in his fingers. He doesn’t quite know what it is. He sniffs it and it smells like chemicals in the centre, then covered in a thin layer of dust and plaster, with a hint of cobwebs. A second later, another strip falls on his forearm and he flicks it off in alarm. He sits up, analysing the ceiling. He’d always been aware that the room was old and prone to collecting cobwebs and honestly the ceiling is not something he usually pays attention to. Now that he’s scanning it, he notices clumps of this sticky substance hanging from the ceiling. With his bedroom window open, the draft pulls in, shaking the clumps loose.

Another strip sticks to his bare back and he leaps out of bed. For all Matt knew it could be mutated cobwebs, or some kind of fungus, or larvae eggs or something equally as gross. He shudders, shaking his arms and legs. It’s too late to enlist Marci to investigate and he’s not sure she’s even going to want to talk to him ever again anyway. And even after that moment of drama he’s unbearably tired. He just needed some sleep and he’d deal with the stuff in the morning.

He scans the room for more of the substance but, suspiciously, it seems only to be hanging over his side of the room. He doesn’t feel right sleeping in Foggy’s bed, so he drags his blankets and pillow to the floor beside Foggy’s and lies down, careful not to sleep on the side where he scratched himself. He lies on the floorboards, the scent of Foggy potent over this side of the room. As sleep overcomes him, he wonders if Foggy came back briefly just to set this all up, a prank to signify a declaration of friendship, and maybe Foggy isn’t as angry with him as he thinks.

 

-

 

He wakes up with a sore back and his legs stiff and he doesn’t even know what time it is. Feeling hopeful, he gets changed. Foggy _had_ to have set up a prank. And it _has_ to mean that Foggy’s not _too_ mad, right? It has to mean something. And Foggy’s not known to be the one to do a prank out of pure malice.

He goes out to the hall and knocks on Marci’s door. She’s grumpy, deservedly, but she gets out of bed and throws on her dressing gown, saying, “It’s about time.”

They take the stairs down to the ground floor and make their way to the public lounge. Matt would have felt nervous but instead he’s excited, he feels good like he has over studied for an exam, like he’s ready for anything. Down in the lounge, the pay phones are caged in plastic cubicles, sitting along in a line beside the large windows looking out to the lawn. Through the glass, Matt can hear students pass by on the pathways heading to various places on campus. The lounge doesn’t provide much privacy but there’s no other choice. Marci slots coins in and dials the number.

“I’ll just be over here if you need me,” Marci says, pressing the phone into Matt’s hands.

“You’re not going to stay?”

Marci grimaces, speaking through thin lips, “No, you can tell me about it afterwards.”

Matt nods and presses the set to his ears. The dial rings and he listens to Marci sauntering over to the couches and engaging in conversation. Suddenly he feels nervous without Marci’s presence, what if he doesn’t know what to say?

The receiver answers, “You’ve called the Nelson residence, this is Sara speaking.”

Flustered, Matt’s tempted to hang up but then he’d have to get Marci to call the number back and that would take some explaining. Or he could just say no one answered and no one would be the wiser. But as the time passes he hears Sara’s wheezing through the crackles on the phone line, the slick substance reminding him all is well.

“Oh uh, it’s Matt,” he stammers eventually.

“Matthew?” Sara asks, surprised. She covers the phone and Matt can barely make out a muffled exchange.

It goes on for a few minutes in a series of static responses, and Matt speaks up, “how’s your back?”

Sara returns to the phone, “oh _darling_ , my back is just awful, thank you for asking. I was finishing off the weeding you and I were doing and I felt a pang in my lower back. It didn’t hurt quite so much at first so I thought nothing of it, but a couple of days later, that’s when I _really_ started to feel it. Back problems are always like that, it doesn’t hurt straight off the bat.”

Matt worries his lip, not knowing what to say in reply.

“Oh, I’ve been demanded to pass the phone on, can you imagine that? My own child telling me to get off the phone—don’t go outsi—“ Sara’s voice fades and is replaced by Foggy’s.

“Sorry about that,” Foggy says quietly.

Hearing Foggy’s voice sends chills down his spine. He presses the set closer to his ear as if that would help him hear Foggy better. The silence stretches on and Matt can make out the sounds of birds tweeting in digital form. He swallows, what is he doing?

“So… what are you calling for?” Foggy asks evenly.

Matt’s cheeks feel hot, “I wanted to … see how you were?”

Foggy sighs and launches into his speech, “well, _I’m_ fine. And you already heard Ma hurt her back. Between you and me, I don’t actually think it’s as bad as she’s making it out to be, and I kinda made the mistake of volunteering my help. I mean, it’s nice to be home for a while longer, I do miss my family a bunch. But Ma can be such a _pain_ sometimes. _Worse_ than Grandma.”

Foggy continues to tell Matt about his state of affairs. His siblings were busy with work and couldn’t look after their Mother while she was in critical condition, but he’s not looking to stay away all semester. Which is a good sign but Foggy doesn’t dwell on it. He moves on to talking about what he’s been doing, what wild tasks his Mother has enlisted him in getting done. He talks about receiving calls from Marci a few times, and that she keeps him up with his classes. Matt finds this surprising, he didn’t know Marci kept such frequent contact with him.

“So how’d you like the silly string prank? Marci—” he holds back a laugh, “Marci told me after I put it up that you were walking around the whole day with some on your clothes. Wish I saw it!”

Matt drops his head in his hands and rasps, “I didn’t realize until early this morning.”

“Oh my god that’s even better. Pranking you is just so good! Although this one was not my best. I was feeling pretty… uninspired.”

Matt pauses. He hates talking to people over the phone, he can’t read them. Can’t tell if they’re lying or not, can’t extract the truths from what their bodies tell him. “Foggy, why didn’t you stick around when you visited?”

Foggy doesn’t say anything at first, birds chirping in the background, “Matt, I did. I waited for hours. I know your class schedule and your study patterns. But you didn’t come back to our room and I didn’t know how to get onto you. I was going to miss my bus, so I left.”

Matt thinks back to that day. It was the day after he’d hospitalised a person like his father never wanted. The copper taste returns with the memory, the slap of punches, the barrage of kicks and stabs. They fought back and it wasn’t fast, it wasn’t easy. The violence grated through him that day, made him incensed, made him edgy. He couldn’t be around people, couldn’t deal with the absence that still made the girl unhappy, couldn’t deal with that beep that kept going off every two seconds. He swallows, “I can’t remember what I was doing.”

“Hm,” Foggy hums, “I wish you would tell me the truth Matt.”

“I-I am,” Matt stammers defensively.

“Then why didn’t you call me til now?”

“Marci only just told me your number!” Matt cries exasperatedly.

Matt takes the phone away from the cubicle, uncoiling the wire as far as it can go. He feels attention falling on him from the students in the lounge, his neck and ears hot, hands sweaty.

“But you didn’t call right away… she told me you were going to call yesterday. I was… I was looking forward to it and you never…”

“Foggy…”

“Do you even want to talk to me or did Marci just force you to?”

“Foggy I—“

“It’s like you don’t want to be frie—to know me anymore. You’re that _disgusted_ with me,” Foggy spits.

“No!” Matt punches the glass windows in front of him, causing some students to jump in fright outside. He feels their pulses vibrating through the glass, hearts racing from within the lounge, voices hushing, the focus on him. Matt sags, returning to the little cubicle, “of course not…”

Foggy’s voice breaks as he talks, “every time Matt, _every time_ I get close to you, you push me away.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

Digitalised wind crackles in the receiver, a gust disfiguring Foggy’s response.

“What?” Matt asks, straining to hear.

The wind subsides and is replaced by Foggy’s brief sigh, “I knew it… Matt, I got offered a spot at Harvard law, believe it or not.”

Suddenly Foggy’s voice seems hollow on the other side, like it’s a recording, like it’s not his friend speaking on the other end of the line. He replies flatly, “congratulations.”

“I’m thinking about transferring.”

A hole in the universe opens up beneath Matt and he falls into a spiral, weightlessness overcomes him, air escapes him. He’s choking on carbon, _what are you doing?_

“It’s a great school,” Matt’s alien doppelganger says, a composed human poised at the phone box, whereas the real Matt waivers, Peter Pan’s shadow, detached from his soul.

“Well, I’m still thinking about whether I’ll take it or not.”

Matt has nothing to say in reply, his soul fighting to return to his body, a ghost between life and death.

Foggy takes a deep breath, “I’m still really mad at you Matt. But call me again okay? I’m starting to remember why I chose to move out for college in the first place.”

Foggy waits for a response and Matt claws through the abyss, the fumes of stars and planets and the metals of satellites spin past him in his wormhole. He scrapes and scratches to get back, to make his mouth say those three words but he’s out of time. The phone clicks and drops a deadline, an eternal hum. He drops the phone and gravity is reversed, pulls him back to his body and he takes a breath, wrecked by his voyage.

Marci appears by him, clutches his shoulder gently, “how did it go?”

Matt scrambles for the phone and hangs it up properly, flustered, “not good.”

Marci slips her arm between Matt’s as he stands up, escorts him out of the lounge, “you guys talked for ages though.”

Matt gulps and wishes he had a mask to cover his whole face, disguise all emotional clues.

Marci pinches Matt’s arm and speaks sternly as she marches Matt up the stairs, “you’re an idiot Matt Murdock. Foggy likes you and you dragged him through the dust.”

“I-I didn’t mean to,” Matt stammers.

“Well _he_ doesn’t know that, _obviously_ ,” she groans, “do I really have to clean up all your messes? No, don’t answer that. You’re both hopeless and you know it. First things first, let’s get rid of that awful stuff on your ceiling. You’ve had bits of it on your jumpers for _days_.”


	4. Round #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes is a bit of honesty...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these last two have been short ones, i'm sorry :/ but the remaining two are longer (and better tbh) so hang in there!

J♦J♥A♦A♥6♦

|Two Pair|

 

Marci comes with him the next day to help Matt with the phone, and she comes along until he remembers the number on his own. At first they don’t talk about much, conversations always short. But Foggy doesn’t expect Matt to call every day and as he starts to realize the pattern, he starts to get more comfortable. He starts venting about his day, complaining about the things he has to do. Opens up more.

Matt finds that having this scheduled appointment helps the rest of his life work out somehow. He’s not missing classes anymore, he sleeps at regular times, eats regularly. He even starts taking the normal way into his room again. Room 267 becomes less of the gate to hades, the sucking vortex within it stabilises and fades. The girl recuperates. Two doors down, the room empties and refills, the new home of a transfer student.

But they say she came from Harvard, Matt wonders if it’s her place Foggy’s going to take. It’s probable, it’s a small world. And somehow the reality of a vacancy at Harvard ignites a sense of urgency in him. He’s been calling Foggy for weeks and he kicks himself for not trying hard enough, for playing hard to get. Marci’s right, he’s not straight forward enough, he’s not _obvious_. And Matt’s been fucking around playing the supporting friend card and he’s probably going to lose Foggy to Harvard law. All because Matt can’t bring himself to be honest for once.

_What the fuck are you doing_?

 

-

 

The dial rings on and he twirls the wire around his finger, tapping the plastic wall of the phone box. He calls the same time every day, they must know the routine by now. The dial goes out and changes to a wobbling shrill, high-pitched like the scream of a child. The machine spits out his coins and he dices them in again, punching the raised buttons in order of Foggy’s landline.

This time Sara answers. The speaker of the house, she always gets the first words in. She tells Matt they’ve just come back from the doctors, that her doctor says she’s getting better rapidly, that she’ll need less one on one care.

“She says by summer I’ll be back on my feet, which is perfect timing. I was prepared to cancel our holiday – which you’re still invited to of course – if a single Nelson can’t go, none of them can!” Sara cackles, her wheezing breath audible even through the telephone.  “But truly, I’m so happy Matthew. Having Franklin home has been a _godsend_ —“

“—I’ll take it from here Ma,” Foggy says.

Sara’s complaints drown out in the background as Foggy takes the phone outside.

“You heard the news?” Foggy asks.

“She’s doing well,” Matt says quietly, “you’ll be back soon?”

“Hm,” Foggy hums and continues like Matt hadn’t asked anything, “you know the way she treats me, she may as well be whipping me. She gets me doing all this crazy housework stuff, like moving the furniture around. And it’s never in the right position. It’s always, _do this_ , _do that_ , _you’re doing it wrong do it over_. Every day I do the dishes, the washing, the general cleaning, like I didn’t do enough of that when I was a kid,” he says in a whisper, “ _She makes it out like we never help her_. But I’ve been doing all this work on top of the extra stuff she has me doing. It’s slavery I tell you Matt.”

“Does she get you doing that gardening?”

“Oh my God that’s the worst job. She’s so picky, it’s horrible work. I refuse to do it anymore.”

“You know you can say no to the rest of it right?”

“It’s not about that, it’s about _respect_. She’s my Ma and I’ve got to do what she says. But I’m getting pretty close to my limit. Lucky Peter’s got some time off coming up. He’s going to lend a hand, which is more than I can say for Holly.”

“So does that mean you’ll return to college?” Matt asks again, hopeful.

Foggy clicks his tongue, “I don’t know if I have to. I’ve been doing distance, besides, the Harvard placing is still on the table. But it would actually be pretty nice to sit in an actual lecture. The god damn recordings at Columbia, they sound like they’ve been recorded underwater, the quality’s so bad. Bet Harvard does good distance studies.”

Matt’s voice wears thing, cracking, “you’re going to transfer?”

Foggy sighs, “still thinking about it buddy.”

“Foggy, I… don’t want you to. I want to graduate with you.”

“You’ll graduate at the same time as me, we’d just be at different colleges.”

“No… Foggy I don’t want to lie to you anymore,” Matt chokes, “please come back, I… I miss you.”

Foggy doesn’t say anything, his breathing hitched over the line. Moments later the ring tone blares a shrill beep, notifying the end of a call. 

 

-

 

Marci curls her fingers around Matt’s arm, sidling in close as the winter night’s draft sweeps across the city. She’s distracted, looking at the lanterns strung between the trees. The Tree-Lighting ceremony is coming to a close though, they’re taking the lanterns down, section by section. She tells Matt it’s kind of sad seeing the trees bare. Without the lanterns, without leaves either, it’s like they’ve been undressed. She laughs, her hair caught in the breeze, drifting over his shoulder.

“This isn’t a date is it?”

“Oh no sweetie, we’re just taking a walk down this _romantic_ street, as friends, of course,” Marci coos slyly, petting Matt’s bicep.

Matt walks with Marci along the pathway, ice and pebbles crunching underneath his boots, “people are going to think we’re dating.”

“I’ve been seen with many handsome people, let them think what they want!” she sings, bouncing in her step.

Thin paper rustles in the wind, the leaves of the trees, candles swinging on their wires. The scent of small flames so strongly catches in Matt’s nostrils, it’s a wonder the campus hasn’t burnt down during any of these ceremonies. In December there’s A Capella groups, live music, speeches. A thick wave of students flock to the various events the Tree Lighting ceremony attracts, the street alive with music and voices and the warmth of tightly knit bodies. But as March rolls in the street becomes quite lonely, naked, like Marci described. Like the life span of a fire. Ignition, spread, the fire travels as far as it can, trying to burn as bright as it did that first time, only to be extinguished as fuel is lost.

Marci talks about her studies, about her friends. Matt knows she keeps up with Foggy too but she never talks about him with Matt. Something tells Matt she’s a gatekeeper of information, choosing not to relay, although he doesn’t like to pry.

Matt’s ears are numb from the cold, he sniffs, rubbing his hands together.

“Should we go back?” Marci suggests, “don’t want you getting sick!”

Matt nods, cringing at Marci’s baby voice.

They make their way back to the dormitories. Marci bumps Matt’s shoulder, speaking softly, “shouldn’t Foggy be back by now?”

Matt doesn’t say anything. The million dollar question.

At the door to their level, Marci stops and holds onto Matt’s hands, “hey, I’m going to hang out in the lounge. Just, Matt… be honest.”

“I’m trying,” Matt says.

Marci gives Matt a peck on his cheek, her lips warm against his cold skin. She trots down the stairs, leaving Matt to push his way into the hallway. He maps out his route. No immediate barriers highlight themselves to him, and he begins to step along the old carpet. His shoes leave trails of dirt and ice in the carpet. He thinks about introducing himself to his new neighbour but there’s this sense of betrayal, like if she hadn’t transferred then maybe Foggy mightn’t be either. Everything’s that simple, huh?

As he crunches down the hallway, he starts to pick up a strange smell on his radar. Well, it’s not necessarily a _strange_ smell, more that it’s out of place. An abundance of maple syrup floats along with the drafts in the dorm, and it doesn’t seem to be coming from the kitchen. He follows the trail, the steam of freshly baked pie like in the cartoons he saw as a kid. He gets closer and closer, the scent dominating him, filling his nose, his mouth, he can taste it as much as he can smell it.

Drawn to the source, he frowns as he aligns his path finding with his well-used map, and pushes into his room. The smell is so potent, so sweet and overbearing, and in moments that’s all he can process. The maple syrup smell. Seconds later he hears the creak of the door as he opens it, the sigh of metal, the slosh of liquid. And then, he feels it pour over him. A wave of maple syrup showers over him. It splashes over his head, over his shoulders, finds its way into his ears, behind his glasses and over his eyes, in his mouth. The mixture slides over his clothes, dribbles down his jeans, gets into his socks.

He stands in the doorway, the bucket clatters on the floorboards and he’s immobilised by shock, by the smell, by the slippery feel of maple syrup encasing him. The smell is almost a complete block on his senses, but when he licks his lips familiar laughing breaks through.

“Oh my God,” Matt breathes, his heart swelling, his body feeling light and tingly despite the weight of the maple syrup.

Foggy howls with laughter, falling back on Matt’s bed. Matt tries to step forward but the maple syrup that had leaked over his shoes causes him to slip forward. His centre of balance spins on its axis, a great tilt, a cosmic shift. The floorboards hit him hard on his side and he slides a little, zero friction permitted by the maple.

“Oh my God Foggy,” Matt repeats. He feels breathless and he starts to wonder if it’s a dream, that the sweet maple is some kind of sadistic sign of an on-coming tragedy, a heart attack in the making. But He hears Foggy slipping off the bed, falling to his knees and kneeling in front of him, the familiar sound of his laugh still playing in his ears.

“Glad to have me back buddy?”

Matt tries to sit up but slips again, opting for rolling onto his back, “I can’t get up.”

“I can see that,” Foggy chuckles.

Matt latches out for him, pulling Foggy into the death trap that is the swamp of maple syrup. Foggy protests but too late, he bumps into Matt, the syrup clinging to him like hot wax.

“Oh my God it’s so gross. It’s on me, it’s on me!” Foggy cries, trying to scrape the maple off him and back onto Matt, with not much success.

Matt holds onto Foggy’s arm as he tries to steady himself, a disguise as he scoops a collection of it in his spare hand, then spreads it over Foggy’s face. Foggy wails, trying to kick Matt away but Matt pulls Foggy down and, finding traction in the puddle of maple, he hoists himself over Foggy’s waist, pinning him down.

Matt tastes the maple on his lips and says, “I love maple syrup.”

Foggy scrapes chunks of maple syrup off his face, spitting out bits of his own hair before he talks, “I know. Was this better than my first prank?”

Matt hums, “it’s getting close.”

“Ugh can _anything_ please Matt Murdock?” Foggy jabs, a hint of anger in his voice.

Matt winces in response.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?” Foggy asks, turning his face to the wall.

Matt’s stomach churns, his fingertips tingling, he leans forward and hooks a finger underneath Foggy’s chin, pulling his face back towards him. He then places his hands on the floor either side of Foggy’s head and he licks a dollop of maple syrup off Foggy’s face.

Foggy freezes, “dude… did you know… that was my cheek?”

Matt’s legs tighten around Foggy’s waist, “I mean, yeah,” he admits.

“You gonna lick it all off me then?” Foggy chokes, his heart in his throat.

Matt’s heart mirrors Foggy’s and he begins to shift to Foggy’s side but Foggy holds his legs in place, “don’t… I mean,” he sighs, relaxing his arms, “if you want to do this then do it, but if you’re going to wuss out I… I can’t take it anymore,” Foggy tries to sit up, “I’ll have to leave for good.”

Matt holds onto Foggy, stomach lurching, heart aching as he speaks, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid. I’ve… been afraid. But I don’t want to lose you again Foggy.”

Foggy’s hips dip under Matt and he arches his back. He takes Matt’s hand, grazes Matt’s forefinger over his lips, “I’ve lost you too many times.”

Foggy drops Matt’s finger in his mouth, licking it briefly, then sucking slowly, and Matt moans. His finger hot, his skin prickling, goose bumps doing their rounds, but he takes his finger out of Foggy’s mouth, noting Foggy’s breath dropping, his heart skipping.

As Foggy tenses, Matt pleads, “please, Foggy, you’re finally back and, and I want you, but please be patient with me while I get used to this. I can’t go as fast as you.”

Matt swallows and he dips down, takes Foggy’s lips in his. They share morsels of maple syrup, the sweetness rubbing into Matt’s skin, into his personality, his being. And he thinks back to his time at Foggy’s house, in the coolness of the bathroom. Where through his drunkenness he allowed himself to fantasize farther than he ever had. Where he thought about curling his fingers over the bumps in Foggy’s back, about caressing Foggy’s shoulder blades, the joints in his bones exposed through skin, where he wanted to drive his hands into Foggy’s hair, know the length, know the texture, the smell, know the length of his beard or the position of it even. He lets fantasy evolve into reality, a natural progression. He kisses Foggy and he allows the passion to consume him like he never has before. The hunger that drives him, that pushes him to devour Foggy. He’s been afraid because it’s too similar to the hunger for violence, for the fights his father denounced him from being involved in. He’s been afraid of his hunger for Foggy but, selfishly, he’d never realized, never took the time to fathom the possibility that Foggy’s as hungry as he is.

Foggy kisses him like it’s their last days on Earth, and Matt matches him only to slow him down, take him back to a tolerable speed. Sticky fingers creep underneath his hem line and something tickles him, the touch on his dry skin, movement down the hall. He flinches, tugging Foggy’s hand away from his stomach and he says, “please be patient Foggy. You always have been, just a little bit longer.”

Matt sits up, his ears prickling, trying to pick up a disturbance. He holds onto Foggy’s hand, stroking it, and tries to cut through the abundance of maple syrup to pin point the source. Before he can prepare himself, the source of trouble shows itself when Marci stomps into their doorway.

“Looks like you guys really need a _flour_!” Marci shouts, ripping apart a bag of flour towards them.

 At the sound of tearing paper Matt shields Foggy with his body, letting most of the flour land on him.

“Marci! What the hell?” Foggy yells, coughing and curling into a ball under Matt.

“Get it? Because flour rhymes with shower and you both need one,” Marci hiccups, giggling at her own joke.

“Oh my God that is actually awful,” Matt states.

“Right?”

Matt frowns, “did you know she was going to do this?”

“No, I mean, she helped me get you out of your room but I did _not_ know she was going to throw a bag of flour on us!” Foggy exclaims.

Marci shakes the rest of the flour out of the bag and declares, “that’s pay back boys!”

Foggy groans, “next time I’m going solo.”

Matt rolls off Foggy, his back coated in a crystallised shell of maple syrup and flour, “next time?”

They stand up together, trying to hold their balance over the slippery floor. Foggy grins, “come on, you really think this is all I’ve got?”


	5. Round #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt gets invited to the Nelson family's annual camping trip.

7♣ 7♠ 7♦ 7♥ J♦    

|Four of a kind|

 

Matt winds the car window down, props his arm on the frame and hangs his hand out, letting the wind slap against his skin. The sounds and smells of nature whip past him as they drive down the dirt road, too fast for Matt to focus on the birds in the trees or the bees in the flowers. Beside him Foggy scribbles frantically on paper, cursing every time they drive over a bump.

“Ma slow down, I keep putting holes in my paper!” Foggy shouts over the roar of the engine.

Sara huffs, “you should have finished your assignment earlier then _Frankie_.”

“Ugh I _know_ , I get it already. Just please drive a bit slower, I want to get this done before we arrive.”

“Want me to stop altogether? We’ll just stop right here,” Sara says, putting her foot on the brake, “and camp on the road. Do you want that?”

“Ma, no! Keep going, Christ, just don’t drive so recklessly. Please?”

Sara takes her foot off the brake, “thanks for the manners.”

Foggy goes back to his essay writing and Matt grins. He’s always hated school breaks because he never had anywhere to go, no family to spend it with. He usually took up summer courses which were intense but what else was he going to do all break? But this time Foggy’s family had been kind enough to invite him along on their annual camping trip. The family goes out West to the same camping grounds the family has camped on for generations. That’s what Sara likes to tell Matt. Foggy corrects her that they’ve only been doing it for the past two, so it’s not really tradition at all. Nevertheless, the whole Nelson family comes together for a few months out of the year, and Matt was fond of the idea of everyone congregating together, sharing history, sharing stories and news. Matt loved that about Foggy’s birthday get together, and at least this way it’s going to be a little bit more relaxed.

“Hang your hand out any farther and you’re going to get your hand chopped off I bet,” Holly whispers in Matt’s ear over the back seat, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Matt withdraws his hand, and Holly cackles, falling back in her seat, “I’m just joking!”

Foggy nudges Matt’s shoulder, “you’ll get a lot of that. I’m not the only one in the family who loves practical jokes.”

 

-

 

Matt sits on a rock by the creek as the children of the Nelson family play in the water. Foggy’s siblings are all grown up but the way they play with the younger cousins in the water, you’d think they were kids too. He listens to their conversations, gets to know them through their playful exchanges. Foggy’s told him before but observing on his own he realizes that despite Holly and Peter being the eldest, they’re the ones preying on the innocence of their younger cousins. Playing pranks on them, masters of mischievous crime. They spin lies to scare the young children, trick them, confuse them. They live up to their roles of the eldest siblings, even in their adulthood. And Matt can only imagine what life must have been like to grow up in a family like Foggy’s.

He curls his toes over the edge of the sun warmed stone, tiny granules of rock sticking to his sweaty skin. He sifts through the voices and finds Foggy, listens to how he tries to protect the younger kids from the devious ways of his siblings, tries to take the brunt of their force. He gets pushed into the water without expecting it and he bursts through the surface, tired, weary, but calm. He laughs and splashes his siblings, but drags himself out of the water soon after. He clambers up the little grassy slope toward Matt, his long hair trying to hold on to as much moisture as possible.

“Didn’t you bring any swimmers?” Foggy asks as he perches beside Matt on the rock.

Matt shakes his head, “just these shorts.”

“Can you swim?”

Matt shakes his head again, folding his knees up and resting his head on them. Foggy slips his hand over Matt’s, threads his river soaked fingers between sun dried fingers. Matt swallows and he holds onto Foggy, tight. The sun warms his shoulders and he internalises the warmth of the sun, the glow swelling within him.

After a while Foggy unties his fingers from Matt’s and pushes himself off the rock, “the water’s not very deep. Just to your knees. Will you come down for a bit?”

He tries to stand steady on the slope but under his wet feet he slips down the slope, falling forward and landing on his hands and knees, “damn this grass,” Foggy says to himself.

Matt clutches his chest as he laughs, the guy shouldn’t know just how many times Foggy’s embarrassed himself and Matt’s known all too well what’s happened.

“So freaking glad my boyfriend’s blind,” Foggy mutters as he rolls over, opting to slide down the small slope instead.

Freezing, Matt’s unsure if he was meant to hear that or not. He kicks off the rock and effortlessly moves down the slope to the riverbank. A shiver ripples through his body as he steps into the cool water, the current a gentle pulling stream. He picks out the sound of chatter from the Nelson family and wades toward them but rounds the perimeter, ensuring to keep a distance.

“Hey, wait for me!” he hears Foggy calling from behind him.

Further in, the water only just reaches below his knees, his shorts still free from moisture. He stretches his arms over his head, soaking in the sunlight, his toes wriggle through mud and reeds. It makes sense now because he’d never contextualised their relationship before. Foggy’s always considered them a couple and Matt’s always been dumb enough to think they’d just been close friends. He wants to punch himself in the face. Foggy never deserved such dishonesty.

Suddenly he feels a wet slap hit the back of his neck. Fine granules of wet sand dribble down his neck, catching at the hem of his shirt. He wipes it off and turns around and he really should have been paying more attention, he should have expected it from the vibrations in the air but he hasn’t done a thing about it. The sand hits him right in the face and stuns him. He drags his hand over his face, holding the sand in his palm as it slips off, drops back in the water. He stands stationary as the people in the distance draw closer, the echoes of sound amplifying as the group wade up stream. Soon enough, the weapons are reloaded and he becomes stuck in the middle of a warzone. Water ripples and breaks, splashes and waves and he can sense the bodies in the density of the hydrogen, legs kicking, arms swinging, fighting their way through the water.

Foggy catches up to him and Matt staggers, his knees falling down through the water. Once broken passed the surface, his knees float down to the riverbed floor and he spreads his hands through the muddy sand, feels the shredded rocks and shells and algae at his fingertips. Foggy sinks in beside him, two warm bodies in the throat of the river.

“You good?” Foggy asks quietly, bumping Matt’s side.

Matt feels the warmth of Foggy in the water and he shivers again, remnants of sand dribbling beneath his shirt, scratching his skin. The Nelsons continue with their sand fight around them, uncaring of any fallen soldiers.

Matt takes a gulp of air, “I’m good,” then sits back on his heels, the water reaching his waist, “drives just make me tired.”

“Don’t know how you could find Ma’s driving soothing,” Foggy scoffs.

The warzone moves up stream again, soldiers losing interest, the homes of fish and turtles and the legendary eels capturing the attention of the children.

“It’s travelling a long distance,” Matt begins. He reaches for Foggy, seeks his shoulder and holds onto it as he continues, “and being in a new place. Having to process all this new information, getting to know the environment. It’s tiring but soon I’ll get used to it.”

Foggy leans over and presses a peck on Matt’s cheek, “I’ll be patient,” he hums and picks up a branch floating in the stream. He uses it to swirl the water out in front of them, creating little waves that ripple toward them, “’Least this time my family knows who you are. They won’t bother us too much.”

Matt grips onto Foggy’s shoulder, feels how Foggy’s joints move, how his muscles tense as Foggy swirls the branch in the water.

“I still don’t get the butcher story though.”

Foggy drops the branch in the water, lets it float away. “What about it?”

“If Roy’s a butcher, why did you Mother want you to be one so badly?”

“Ah, Uncle Roy doesn’t do family discounts,” Foggy says, slapping the water with his hand for effect, “And see, the whole idea of me becoming a butcher was so she could get _free_ meat. Because that’s what Nelsons do, we look after our family. We provide the tents for the camping trip. Every single one of them come from Dad’s store.”

“Seems a bit unfair then,” Matt says.

“Yeah try telling Uncle Roy that and you’ll open up an old wound. He’ll be talking at you for hours until he feels he’s defended himself enough.

Matt laughs, “noted,” then he pauses, “wait, if there’s a butcher, and Holly’s the baker, who’s the candlestick maker?”

Foggy takes a sharp inhalation, “Peter’s an electrician, he can pass as a modern day candlestick maker can’t he? And oh my God, they’re all in a tub off to sea. Sort of. It’s a river, and there’s no tub. Whatever, this is great. I can’t wait to use this against them somehow.”

Matt grins and they stand up together, water rinsing off their bodies. Matt clings onto Foggy’s bicep, a shiver rippling through him from the temperature difference. In the hanging trees above them the sound of children bounces off the bark, leaves sway in the gentle breeze and birds chirp in the evening sun. The distinct river smell coats them both but he can’t wipe the grin off his face, standing there in the shallows with Foggy by his side.

Foggy tugs Matt toward the bank and says, “hey, I’ve got to go post my essay.”

“You finished it?”

“Yeah man, I mean, it’s got a few holes in it but it’s legible. And I’ve got to go post it before the sun sets because it’s already a few days late. Who knows if I’m going to pass or not.”

As they walk up to the bank Matt pokes Foggy in the side playfully, “how did you even get a place at Harvard?”

“Hey I got into Columbia didn’t I? Have some faith in my amazing essay writing skills.”

They step out of the water and dry their feet on the grass. Matt hugs his sides, his shirt and shorts damp, “I’m glad you didn’t transfer Foggy.”

Foggy cups Matt’s jaw, grazes his thumb over Matt’s lips, “me too,” he says before kissing Matt.

 Matt melts into the kiss, weaves his fingers into Foggy’s damp hair. Foggy caresses Matt’s cheek, unshaven, he worries Matt’s lower lips in his teeth before drawing away. He slaps Matt’s ass then trots over the grass and calls over his shoulder, “don’t get into trouble while I’m gone!”

 

-

 

 Matt taps his stick over the campgrounds until he finds the logs encircling the fire pit. He steps over one log and sits down, placing his bag down next to his feet and folding his stick inside the bag. He fishes out his discman and plugs in his earphones. Eight buttons line the outside of the discman, on, off, next track, back track, pause, play, volume up, volume down, and a one press button to pop the lid. He places the discman in his lap and opens up a smaller bag containing his CDs. He runs his fingers over the covers, reading the short-hand braille until he finds the disc he’s after. He pops open the cover and presses in the CD.

Firewood pops and crackles as the fire burns through the pile, and Matt listens to his music beside the warmth the fire provides. He plays his music with the volume low, a soundtrack accompanying the background noise. Above his music there’s a cluster of noises as night falls. Some children still play in the water, adults quarrel over dinner. The birds squawk in the tree branches above him, a rustle of animals in bushes, bugs and ants climbing over the earth floor. His clothes crinkle beside the warmth of the fire, any remaining dampness from the river evaporating to leave crusty dirt and river remnants on the cotton of his clothing.

Fidgeting with the cord of his earphones, he wonders where Foggy is. Barbequed sausages and steak, caramelised onions and the scent of burnt toast floats over the camp. He takes out an ear plug and hears Holly announce dinnertime in an enormous bellow. Matt pops the plug back in as his stomach grumbles, his legs bouncing, nervous. He senses the pockets of noise sponging in close to the barbeque area, then spilling out down toward him, around the fires. People take their seats by the fire, perching their plates of food on their knees and Matt sifts through the data to find Foggy.

One of his ear plugs pops out and he jumps, Foggy suddenly standing beside him.

“Here, I got you a plate,” Foggy says as he sits next to Matt.

Matt turns off his discman and puts it back in his bag.

“Come on dude, take the plate from me already,” Foggy says, holding it over Matt’s lap.

Taking the plate, Matt says, “thanks. Did you get lost on the way or something?”

Foggy laughs as he munches through a burnt hotdog, “I did actually. _Peter_ told me to go right at the toilets sign post when I should have gone _left_ ,” he says pointedly.

From the opposite side of the fire, Peter shrugs, “hey, it’s not my fault you can’t follow simple instructions.”

“You’re instructions were wrong!” Foggy exclaims.

“I’ve only ever been to the park ranger’s house once, you shouldn’t have expected me to know the most _direct_ route,” Peter says in a very matter of fact voice.

“ _Boys_ , stop fighting while we eat,” Sara says sternly, sitting on a fold out chair behind the circle.

“Sorry Ma,” Peter and Foggy say in unison.

Matt holds back a giggle as he bites into his portion of steak. The conversation moves from topic to topic, and as they consume their meals Matt grasps onto what he can from their stories. Sometimes Foggy whispers explanations to him, other times he has to piece together the stories himself. Soon they finish eating and small hands lay on Matt’s plate, very well behaved children take the adult’s plates away. Foggy was right about that.

Matt listens to the children running off with the paper plates, taking them to the trash cans, their laughter bubbling through the camp. He edges closer to Foggy, his arms chilly, he bumps his knees, hooks one foot under the other. Peter launches into a grandiose story about a holiday to New Zealand. He claims it was spontaneous, because tickets were cheap, but Foggy informs him it’s because he’s a huge nerd for Lord of the Rings.

“I was done with the North so I rented a Fiat down in Christchurch and drove south next to the glaciers and this little car. It didn’t have much go to it, I was just chugging along down the highway, loads behind schedule because the fucking thing wouldn’t go above 55mph…”

Foggy whispers to Matt, “this is one of his favourite stories.”

“…It was getting pretty dark and it was torrential season so I thought I’d better stop at the next town for a bit. So I stop at this little town’s pub to grab a bite, then move on. And so I’m in this tiny pub and God the owner must have been such a treat for tourist. Such a redneck! Actual mohawk and peg leg and a wicked rough accent, had real trouble understanding what the fuck he was going on about. Anyway, he comes out of the back with this battered radio under his arm and he announces that they think the town’s going to flood. That chunks of the glaciers have chipped off in the storm and they thought the waves were going to roll over their swamp of a town. So I dashed out of there and got into my little Fiat and powered through the storm. It was so fucking windy, torrential season see, and I got to the main bridge of this town and it was one of those ones that have to rise and fall for boats. And I was sitting in front of this bridge, the wind practically pushed me off the road, and in front of me there were these enormous waves…”

“He’s making exaggerated wave movements,” Foggy explains, some in the circle scoff.

“…I’m not kidding, literally the hugest fucking waves you’ve ever seen trapped in this cemented off funnel for the river to run through the town. And so there was this torrent of waves rushing down this channel and as soon as I saw them I knew the bridge wasn’t going to lower any time soon because that pub owner was not kidding around. There were fucking giant chunks of ice sliced right off the glaciers floating down the river. I kid you not, huge fucking chunks of ice. What a sight that was.”

Some in the circle coo in awe, but Foggy sits back and tuts, “it’s more extravagant every time he tells it.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Matt says, feels Foggy’s hand wrap around his own.

Conversation and stories continue as the night closes in, the snap of eskies opening, the pop of lids of beers. Despite the children off to bed, the adults begin playing games, drunk, silly. They start with word games and as the older adults peel off to their tents, the games become riskier, chancier. Cards come out, bets are made. Foggy sits on the sidelines with Matt, doesn’t involve himself with their games but exchanges words, banter and honest conversation. Matt rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder, tired. The wind floats off the river and rustles through the tree leaves, carries the scent of the river, of water and mud and sand and reeds, all nice natural smells. Matt hugs Foggy’s arm, his knees warm, his cheeks buzzing, beer on his lips.

Foggy becomes embroiled in a heated argument with Peter and he slips out of Matt’s clutches, making his way toward his brother. Matt sits back on the log, the absence of Foggy sending a shiver through him, but he has to remind himself not to be clingy, not to feel like he must be at Foggy’s side every second of the day. And it’s not impossible. He warms his hands beside the fire, listening to the talk around him, to the wildlife. The hazes in the map become clearer, more defined the more he takes the time to note each detail. The position of the fire pit, the arrangement of tents, the barbeque area, the path down to the river. There’s still the expansive forest around him but the places he needs to go are tangible to him now. He feels less overwhelmed by the abundance of data, less afraid of the drastic changes of environment.

Presently, Holly scoots over beside him, prompting him to sit straight, alert.

“I saw you had a discman before, so _old school_ ,” Holly sings.

She pulls Matt’s bag toward her and starts going through it. She fishes out the discman and pops the cover, examining the CD inside. She grunts, closes the lid and sorts through Matt’s albums. She takes one out at a time, leaning in close to the fire to read the spines.

“Did you make these stickers yourself or what? They’re all wonky,” Holly says as she runs her hands over the braille covering the CD cases.

“Cut the blind guy some slack,” Matt replies.

Holly barks out laughter in the same vein as Sara, or any other Nelson. Deep, honest laughter. “Pretty interesting music taste. I haven’t heard of any of it!” she laughs again and throws the CDs back into Matt’s bag.

Matt smiles and Holly moves her attention away to something more interesting, more eye catching. He cranes his neck, stretching, and he hears the heartbeats of the Nelson’s, happy in frivolous talk, or heated in vicious, quiet in sleep or restless in wakefulness. The night stretches on and Foggy retires to his tent before Matt. He’s not the first to pass out but at least it’s not Matt this time. The fire crackles on and with the help of liquor, Matt finds himself opening up to the Nelsons. There’s many of them but he doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore, feels like he belongs. He still has to be careful, in terms of mapping, in terms of acting and emoting, and keeping the violence at bay. But he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore, he can exist without fear.

 

-

 

His music bag slung over his shoulder, Matt taps his way through the village of tents until he gets to his, marked by a pointedly positioned rock. He drops to his knees in front of the tent and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s tipsy or if he suddenly has the strength of a child, because he can’t get into his tent. He yanks at the zipper but something has lodged it in place, making every attempt to rip the zip down the line of jagged teeth pretty much impossible.

Both hands on the zipper, he tries to force it open and for a moment he thinks he’s succeeded until he continues to pull the zipper down. The tent material shreds as he pulls, the tiny plastic threads fraying in teeth grating rips. Matt’s aware that the sound stirred some people from their sleep. Flushed, he climbs into his tent anyway, the music bag still fitted to his shoulder. He lies down momentarily and tries to pull the flaps shut but the wind flicks them wide open again. He moans and rolls out of the tent, getting to his feet.

“Foggy?” he hisses through the night, “Foggy!”

Someone shushes him and he stumbles forward, senses cut off from the cold, from the damp wind weaving in between the tents.

“Foggy,” Matt calls out, a little louder, the music bag swinging by his hips.

He hears movement to his right and cocks his head. Foggy approaches him, speaks in a hushed whisper, “Matt, what is it? You sound scared.”

Yawning, Matt says, “I’m not, just tired. And _someone_ ruined the zipper to my tent.”

Foggy whispers roughly, “ugh I must have done it wrong! You were meant to get stuck _inside_.”

“You’re getting slack at this Foggy.”

“I’m honestly running out of ideas,” Foggy says flatly.

“Well, I can’t get the tent door to close and it’s too cold to sleep with it open,” Matt says, waving through his darkness to wrap his hand around Foggy’s arm.

“Guess you’ll have to stay with me tonight!” Foggy grins, hooking his arm around Matt’s.

As Foggy guides him back to the tent, Matt nudges him, “I did wonder why you insisted on having separate tents. All for a prank, typical.”

“Shut _up_!” someone yells from the mess of tents.

Blood rushes to Matt’s face and he clings onto Foggy. They reach the tent and Foggy pulls Matt to his knees in front of the door. Foggy fiddles with the zipper, pretending to have difficulty before opening it up and climbing in.  Matt climbs in after, immediately noticing Foggy’s tent is bigger than his. Foggy rolls under the blankets and Matt pushes his music bag up against the canvas wall of the tent. He feels for the blankets and slide underneath, facing Foggy. The stitching of the tent walls prevents much cool air from flowing in, but it doesn’t stop the outside noises, and Matt tries to get comfortable amongst the noises blatantly louder than usual. He tucks a pillow underneath his head, painfully aware of the twigs and bark crackling underneath the thin layers that separate him from the campground floor.

Foggy breathes softly beside him and Matt tries to focus on Foggy to distract him from everything else. He does so for a while and he starts to think Foggy’s fallen asleep. He’s always been a good sleeper, able to take short naps between classes. Matt’s always admired him for that skill, to be able to shut off the world at will. Matt rolls on his stomach and reaches for his music bag. He carefully rips apart the velcro opening, one fibre of fabric at a time. Then he scoops out his discman and gets comfy again before plugging his earphones in. The song picks up where he left it, and he presses the back button to start again, the hard click of metal a crashing rock to him in the silence of the night.

A warm hand covers his on the discman and Foggy whispers, “can I listen too?”

Matt parts his mouth, surprised that Foggy feigned sleep. He nods and takes out his right earplug, holding out for Foggy. He’s unsure if Foggy can see but in a second Foggy takes the plug out of his hand, the cord taut between their distance. Matt shuffles in closer, relaxing the cord and he holds the discman against his chest. The volume plays low enough for Matt to still hear Foggy breathing quietly opposite him, but provides just enough distraction for the world around the tent to be cut off. It’s late, he’s extremely tired from the drive and somehow from sitting around doing nothing. His schedule broken means that all he feels like doing is sleeping or listen to music, or both. But as the beat of the song begins to ascend he finds himself becoming more awake, more aware. Of Foggy in just his shorts beside him, sharing a bed, well, technically a tent. The alcohol in him dilutes but he doesn’t let the fear return, doesn’t stop himself from doing what he’s always wanted to do.

He runs his hand across the cord to find Foggy, hooks his forefinger under Foggy’s chin and draws in close, pressing warm lips against lips. As he kisses Foggy he can tell the guy’s as tired as he is, they kiss sloppy and Foggy tastes like the yeast from cheap beer mixed with seemingly a whole bag of marshmallows. Matt can’t help but laugh at the odd mix of flavours, drawing a disgruntled noise from Foggy.

“Your breath—” he begins, giggling, but he senses Foggy holding his air in his lungs, hurt. He continues sincerely, “no, I’m sorry Foggy, I’m not pulling away for any other reason except to comment on the fact that you ate a whole lot of marshmallows.”

Foggy lets his air out and he finds Matt’s hands, holds them in his, “for a moment there I was expecting the worst.”

Matt pulls their hands to his lips, presses small kisses over Foggy’s palms, “I’m so sorry Foggy, I’ve been a total idiot.”

Foggy hums, “who would have known a 4.0 gpa student would be so shit at feelings?”

“For fuck’s sake, go to _sleep_ already!” someone calls out through the night, gaining agreements from around the tents.

Foggy holds in laughter and pulls Matt’s arms around him, slinging one leg over Matt’s. He takes the plug out of Matt’s ear, whispering, “I think we better listen to them this time,” and he presses the plug back in. He kisses Matt briefly, lips lazy with sleep and the sugar taste more potent now than yeast. The music subsides into gentle acoustics and as their bodies relax, Matt leans his forehead against Foggy’s, nose beside nose, an eternal eskimo kiss. 

Just before Matt slips into sleep, Foggy drawls, “please keep being honest with me, don’t hold back.”

 

-

 

Gravity feels lost to Matt in the moments between sleep and wakefulness. His equilibrium off balance, he momentarily forgets where he is. The ground beneath him flickers from being the bed at college and for a brief moment his worn out mattress at St. Agnes’. As sleep slips away he grasps the blankets above him, drawing in the contents of his surroundings. Thick woollen blankets, thin polyester walls. Foggy curled into a ball, bare back flush against his chest, Matt’s shirt crusted with the faint smell of river and sweat. His discman perches at the edge of the tent, pushed away in sleep, the earphones lost under their pillows.

Matt buries his face in Foggy’s hair. It smells of the river too, but also of natural oils, salt and the remnants of ash from the fire the night before. Slowly his bubble of awareness expands beyond the tent except he finds himself having trouble matching sound to location. Birds tweet and frolic in water which should be coming from the river, but the volume it’s at is impossibly amplified, as if the wildlife were right outside the tent.

Shuddering, Matt peels himself away from Foggy and jiggles the zipper of the tent open. Holding onto one flap he analyses the exterior of the tent. His dream does not cut away, and instead materialises as truth, as reality. Birds are indeed bathing in a pool of water. Inside the tent, Foggy stirs and plods up beside Matt, sticks his head out of the tent.

When he speaks, his voice is cracked with sleep, “what the fucking fuck did you do Holly?”

There’s a click of a button, a camera’s shutter sounds and startles the birds away. As they push off, water splashes around and another click goes off, capturing the commotion. Familiar laughter erupts and Foggy groans.

“How the fuck are we meant to get out Holly?” Foggy bellows, startling Matt.

“Hey, I don’t know, I’m not the one who did it. Besides, _You’re_ the smart one, you can figure it out!” Holly cackles, then turns on her feet, fleeing.

Matt listens to her clicking the camera as she runs down toward the barbeque area. He sits back in the tent, “what’s going on?”

“This is why I don’t like listening to music while I sleep,” Foggy mutters, still staring outside.

Matt reaches out for Foggy, holds his hand, “what did they do?” he presses, getting worried at Foggy’s lack of a substantial answer.

“It’s actually pretty cool,” Foggy sighs, “they’ve always out pranked me.”

“Spit it out already,” Matt says, frustrated.

“They dug a huge fucking trench around our tent and filled it with water. Matt, they made a moat around us.”

Matt sits back on his heels in awe, “now _that’s_ a prank.”


	6. Final Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Matt gets Foggy back, except Foggy's making it hard for the prank to even work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Foggy's pov)

6♣ 6♦ 6♠ J♦ J♥ 

|Full House|

 

Foggy thought he was done with his mother’s obscure tasks when he’d moved back to college, but on Christmas Eve no less he’s tasked with driving her around the town locating extremely vital objects. His mother had decided that purchasing cypresses was an essential Christmas Eve errand, and had insisted that the breed his father’s hardware store stocked was simply not the right one. He felt pretty bad leaving Matt at his home but Holly assured him she’d keep Matt entertained. And he didn’t have much time to worry when he had to wade his way through the throng of late Christmas shoppers to find the cypresses his mother wanted. Typical of his mother to leave such an odd job for a terrible time.

It’s probably for the best that Matt stay away from the shops at this time anyway. People go crazy about getting where they need to go, they just charge on down their path without a thought of anyone else. His ma’s got a bad enough back that she had to stay in the car while he shopped. The thing is, it became very frustrating when he’d purchased a cypress seedling and returned to the car only to be told he’d bought the wrong one. It goes on like this for a few hours. They try various stores, Foggy buys breeds of cypresses that he can barely differentiate, and as the sun drips behind the lowest buildings, a thick cloud creeping over the sky, his mother decides the first one he bought was the right lot. He sighs, so typical.

He drives her and the box of seedlings back to the house and she insists on him planting them right away. Peter’s cleared the garden of snow already. His mother did always like showing off the garden when the family visits for Christmas. Or any time really. Sara takes pride in her garden and would take any chance for it to see some eyes, receive some compliments. As he gets to work planting the seedlings via extremely strict instructions, Peter comes out with the outdoor heaters, arranging them around the garden for suitable smoking positions.

“How long you gonna be?” Peter asks gruffly, his scarf wrapped over his head in a ridiculous knot.

Foggy tugs stay hair behind his ear, accidentally rubbing bits of dirt into his wintery damp hair, “just have to plant six more of these. Why, you got something else for me to do?”

Peter shakes his head, “nah, we got the rest… _covered_ ,” he holds back a chuckle, “anyway, think it’s pretty silly Ma’s got you planting cypresses. They’re not gonna take in this weather.”

Foggy shrugs, “Ma requested a specific type, she knows what she’s doing.”

“Whatever you say doc,” Peter says, striding back inside the house.

The sliding door clicks shut and Foggy returns to his gardening. He takes his time getting it done, ensuring each seedling was dug in the shape his mother had described. By the time he’s done the sun has well and truly set, the bats flock to the trees hanging over the telephone wires and he pulls his coat tight around him, standing up. Down the side of the house he sees the cars piling up in their driveway, family members shuffling inside the house. Smoke fumes from the chimney, the windows of his house practically glowing with warmth. He puts the gardening tools against the fence before making his way inside.

Warm air slaps his cheek the moment he slides open the door. The metal squeals in its tracks as he drags the door shut behind him, slicing out the night. From the staircase, his sister bounds down the carpeted stairs, slamming her feet on the floor as she lands. The assortment of items on the shelves in the hallway clatter at the movement and Foggy wonders how none of the photo frames haven’t broken yet.

“I’m not sure about this,” he can hear Matt saying as he comes down the stairs.

“It’s too late to go back now,” Holly cries. She turns and when she sees Foggy standing before the hallway she screams, “God Foggy, you scared me!”

Matt winces at the noise, takes hold of the banister, one foot still on the stairs.

“Inside voice Holly,” Foggy says, coming over to Matt.

Holly flips him off and brushes past him. She’s like a tornado, you can tell where she is at any time, whipping through the house at outrageous speeds, causing trouble. Foggy catches Matt’s hand. He looks disoriented, frowning, lips pouting. Foggy feels his heart in his throat, how strange is it that being away from Matt for just a few hours makes him feel so homesick? How did he ever manage it for a month? He reaches up to Matt’s brow, thumbs the messy hair and Matt visibly relaxes. A hint of a smile creeps across his face and Foggy feels his body tingling, a mixture of his numbness warming and his love for Matt prickling his skin.

Foggy moves Matt’s hand to his heart, lets him feel his heart beat for Matt. He closes his eyes, tries to feel the pulse in Matt’s wrist, faint through layers of wool and cotton. Matt slips off the step, bouncing as he catches his footing. They laugh together and Foggy catches Matt’s lips before the laughter dies away, tasting Matt’s breath, minty, always minty fresh. He pulls Matt in, strokes Matt’s scalp, massaging as they kiss. His hair is crazy thick and Foggy can never understand how Matt makes it look so blow dried. He massages in circles in time with his kissing, slow like Matt likes it. He moans into Foggy’s mouth, granting Foggy access to Matt’s tongue, and he never could get over how good Matt is at French kissing.

They’re interrupted by a new arrival at the front door, the doorbell ringing loudly down the hall. Foggy tugs Matt up the stairs away from sight while his mother saunters to the front door from the lounge room. Matt breathes heavily in Foggy’s ear, his lips hot on Foggy’s ears as he rasps, “sh-should we take it to your room?”

Momentarily Foggy rests his forehead on Matt’s shoulder, then composes himself, “probably shouldn’t, I haven’t said hi to anyone yet, Ma’s gonna kill me if I put it off any longer.”

Matt gulps as Foggy peels himself away, “we could just be a minute.”

Stepping down onto the carpeted hallway, Foggy looks back and grins at Matt, he’s bound to look goofy as fuck and he’s always glad Matt can’t see how 90% of the time he looks like an idiot. He takes Matt’s hand, leading him down into the lounge room. As they step behind the crowd of people, he glances over at Matt again, his face flushed and his own is undoubtedly flushed too. He’ll pass it off as the temperature difference between outside and inside, and Matt’s can be explained away as embarrassment. His family’s definitely going to believe that one.

Up on the wall beside the fireplace Peter has a projector going showing photos of his various holidays. It’s Peter’s favourite conversation starter, the fact that he started off as a simple electrician and now owns his own business, makes enough money to travel regularly. Foggy rolls his eyes as he sees the infamous glaciers slinking down an isolated river in New Zealand, and rolls them even harder when Holly’s girlfriend expresses awe of the photography.

This time it’s easier, he thinks, for Matt to be around his family. Third time’s the charm. Most of them know him pretty well, or know of him at least. He still is obliged to go around to each Nelson and exchange ‘good to see you’s, and ‘how are you’s, basic maintenance of distant family member relationships. Plus, Matt’s no longer the focus of attention with Holly’s new girlfriend by her side. Soon enough they’re able to find a spot to stand in the corner, just beside the projector. His house is pretty small so it’s a wonder how Foggy’s father, is even able to trundle in and out with buckets full of firewood. Edward spends most of the night getting in and out of his arm chair, poking the fire, ensuring it remains roaring. When he sits in his arm chair, swollen ankles resting on an ottoman, he avoids conversation with the family. He’s always been like that, very quiet, very internal. But when Sara comes in with mugs of tea on a tray he warms up to conversation, pulling Matt in.

Foggy listens to them, a warm mug of tea in his hands. His dad’s hard of hearing and so Matt has to kneel beside the arm chair. Matt never makes the mistake of talking louder, his dad’s always frustrated when people do that. There’s some kind of mutual understanding between them, making their exchange of words very pleasant to hear as opposed to shouting matches Ed usually gets into at family gatherings. Around the lounge room a tray of party snacks gets passed around and ends up perching on a very old cabinet by the passage to the front door. Foggy promises himself that when he becomes a practicing lawyer, earning the big bucks, he’ll buy his Ma everything new, a new house even. Although she probably wouldn’t want that, but he could refurbish the house for her, get rid of their old tables and shelving and seating with rust from the last century. He’ll replace anything that’s worn and dusty and she’ll never have to feel that her garden has to outshine the state of her house again. 

When his dad excuses himself to check on the fire, Matt returns to Foggy’s side, a magnet snapping to metal. He sips on his own mug of tea, tapping the ceramic. Matt must think he’s being discreet but Foggy can tell he’s anxious about something. He keeps touching his neck, pulling at the collar of his jumper and that frown’s back on his brow.

“Do you need some air?” Foggy asks softly.

“Y-yeah,” Matt says, biting his lip.

Foggy takes Matt’s mug and places them both on the window sill. He’ll find them again later. Then he leads Matt around the cluster of people and down the hall. Matt stops at the stairwell, places a hand on the bannister.

Foggy nods toward the back door, “hey, let’s get some _fresh_ air. Besides, I want to show you something.”

He tugs Matt’s arm and he stumbles behind. Foggy takes him outside, the sliding door whooshing shut behind them. Light snow falls, probably the tamest winter they’ve had in years around here. Foggy puts it to global warming.

“Sorry about leaving you alone today buddy,” Foggy says as he leads Matt over to the garden bed.

“It’s okay, I kept busy,” Matt says, his lips curled.

Foggy quirks his eyebrow but continues with what he wants to say, “I mean, I don’t really mind helping Ma out but like, I haven’t heard a single person comment on the garden and I worked so hard planting these tiny trees for Ma. Someone’s got to appreciate the work, even if you’re blind.”

Matt laughs and he pretends to inspect the garden, “looks good to me,”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Foggy smiles, clapping Matt’s shoulder.

He wraps an arm around Matt’s waist and bounces briefly, trying to keep warm. He looks over Matt’s shoulder, “everyone’s inside still. Don’t know how they’re doing it. You were right, it was getting pretty stuffy in there.”

Against the deep blue sky the chimney puffs out a gust of black smoke, sparks flickering against the stars. The windows of the house are misty from the warmth of the people and food cooking inside. The house is like an oven, painted white, glowing and hot and packed. He looks back at Matt, all in black. He says he buys his clothes for the way they feel, not for appearances, but Foggy swears he must ask for the trendy stuff because Matt looks like a model straight out of a fashion magazine. Tightly fit sweater over a button up paired with dark chinos. As with all of Matt’s clothes, these ones are probably made with fancy material, no nylon or rayon or polyester like Foggy’s used to. Likely compounds of silk, satin, 100% wool.

Foggy runs his hands over the woven patterns in Matt’s sweater, he must be cold without a coat on. He takes him over to a standing heater, the head buzzing out an orange lighted heat. Matt curls into the heat, warming his hands and Foggy’s convinced of the protection of the night shadows as he slips a hand beneath the hem of Matt’s shirt. He grazes his thumb over the tight skin around Matt’s hips, causing Matt to flinch. He turns and lets Foggy wedge his hand further between tight material. Foggy crouches, presses his lips against Matt’s muscled abdomen as he lifts Matt’s shirt and sweater up as high as it can go, which isn’t far.

He feels Matt’s fingers claw into his hair and he coughs out, “should we go back to your room?”

Foggy has a better idea. He gets to his feet, “over here,” and he takes Matt back toward the house but off to the right, behind the garage.

Noise swells out of the house, muffled by the misty windows and icy grass lick their shoes as they slip further into the shadows. The snowfall ceases in this corner of the garden and Matt leans against the wooden sliding of the garage, hands splayed out, like he’s soaking the raw energy from it. Foggy drops to his knees this time, and lifts Matt’s shirt again. He kisses Matt’s skin and feels the shudder, feels the skin tighten under his lips and he can’t get Matt’s shirt to rise any farther so he works on his belt, the brass buckle clanging against the garage wall, echoing in the emptiness of the backyard. He pauses before removing Matt’s chinos, only to rub Matt’s cock through expensive material, coaxing the blood to centre there. He caresses Matt’s balls through the pants and Matt throws his head back, pushing his pants down for Foggy.

Foggy wrings the chinos around Matt’s thighs and he grabs Matt’s erect dick, throbbing in his hand. Licking his lips, Foggy takes Matt’s dick in his mouth, hot skin pulsing, filling him. He spreads one hand under Matt’s shirt, teasing the sensitive skin above Matt’s cock, the other playing with Matt’s balls. He doesn’t yet know Matt’s ticks but whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it right because at each touch, at each suck, each teeth graze over the head of Matt’s cock, he practically mewls like a puppy. He wraps his tongue around Matt’s cock and tugs as he sucks and Matt moans, but compared to the noise pollution his family is making from inside, he’s not worried anyone’s going to have heard it.

“Foggy…” Matt moans, clawing at Foggy’s shoulders, trying to hold him in place.

But Foggy uses it against him, teases him, momentarily fast then slow, coaxing the passion out of Matt. He worries the tip of Matt’s cock in his teeth, gentle, licking at the pre-come seeping out. Bats screech in the trees above him and Matt’s a mess above him, wild and needy and Foggy takes him whole again, Matt’s head reaching the back of Foggy’s throat.

“Foggy!” Matt hisses through grated teeth, dragging his fingers up through Foggy’s hair, knotted and he stops at Foggy’s ears, circling them, his nail tickling Foggy just so.

Foggy shudders and he quits the tease, takes Matt’s dick in his mouth, steadily faster and his heart beats loud, his pulse thrumming in his fingertips, caressing muscled abs, sensitive balls, tight skin, hot and thirsty. The snow begins briefly, an icy wind blowing beneath Foggy and Matt gives a brief warning, of a choke and a lurch in his spine, a cough in his breath and Foggy holds on, lets Matt’s come dart into his mouth. Matt sags above him, extinguished. He props himself back on the garage wall, hands pressed against the splintering wood and Foggy relishes the energy extracted from him, the pure amount of release, relief. He spits out the come on the grass, wipes his lips.

Matt falls to the ground, sits on his heels opposite Foggy. He tries to speak but his breathing hasn’t caught up yet, hasn’t evolved to translate the brain waves to words. Instead, Foggy takes Matt’s head and rests it on his shoulder, rubs his back, lets the last few glaciers upset the course of the river.

“Foggy…” Matt pants, gripping Foggy’s waist.

“Yeah dude?” Foggy asks, eyes glazed.

“Don’t think I’m done yet…” Matt drawls, sitting up, his shoulders rolling back, his lips parted.

Matt shuffles over the grass, scoops up Foggy’s hand and gets him to caress Matt’s jawline, his stubby fingers soft against Matt’s stubble. He takes control and flicks his thumb underneath Matt’s lower lip but Matt dips, takes Foggy’s finger in his mouth. Blood negates from his heart, north and south, to cheeks, ears, neck, and down to his cock. As Matt plays with his finger Foggy thinks back to that one time at college and if only Marci hadn’t interrupted them, how different could things be?

Even so, he thinks about his family huddled inside and just as he does, someone pushes open the sliding door, stepping out to light a cigarette. They’re still covered by the night’s shadow, the chaos from the party leaking out the hole the sliding door makes for it. Matt draws Foggy’s finger out of his mouth, a thin trail of saliva dangling from the tip, a calculated seduction. But the click of a lighter jolts him, he fumbles with his pants, frantically trying to give himself some dignity.

Foggy holds his breath, eyeing the smoker, “let’s go inside.”

A flash of confusion bolts over Matt’s face and he questions in a hush, “to your room?”

The smoker dabs out a cigarette in an ash tray Peter provided at every standing heater, then they wander back inside, the sliding door a high pitched squeal across cold metal. Foggy parts from Matt, lets the cool air wash over him as he stands up, “we’ve… been absent from the party for a while, they’re going to start getting suspicious.”

Matt whinnies, “let them drink, and smoke, they won’t remember. Besides, I was hoping…” Matt trails off, standing up close to Foggy.

He takes Foggy’s hand again, still sticky and warm from Matt’s mouth and he pulls Foggy’s fingers over his ass, cupping it. He leans in, kisses Foggy’s neck, and Foggy feels Matt’s cock again, hard and pressed against his thigh.

“You’re insatiable,” he growls, nibbling Matt’s ear.

Foggy hooks an arm around Matt’s waist, leading him back to the house and it’s hard not to stop every second to make out. He kicks open the sliding door, hot air instantly blares onto their faces but there’s a strange silence about the house, one speaker telling a story to a group of fifty. Matt closes the door behind them, a zip of metal forces the air to break between warm and cold. The clack of the door falling in place again cuts off the speaker, silence falls over the house and Foggy’s skin crawls, like he’s accidentally walked into the wrong house.

From the lounge room Foggy hears muffled whispers begin to rise, then Holly speaks over them, “no! Let them be, just shut up and listen to Peter’s stupid story, God!”

“Thanks Holly,” Peter says gruffly after clearing his voice.

He continues with a story that captivates the crowd and Foggy catches portions of it as they edge closer, distracted by Matt’s hands creeping up his sides under his shirt as they tip-toe down the hall, “I haven’t heard this story before, I kind of want to stay and listen.”

At the stairwell Matt unbuttons his shirt, tugging it and his sweater over his head, right there on the steps without a care in the world. Matt chucks the bundle of clothes up the stairs and Foggy gasps silently as he takes in the sight of Matt’s bare chest, glowing under the mellow light of the hallway and he’s like some kind of statue, bronzed and shiny in the light. Foggy jumps up the stairs, and at his bedroom door he turns to see Matt sneaking up the stairs behind him, this stupid toothy grin on his face and Foggy throws his arms around Matt. He kisses Matt and pulls him in as he presses against the wall, hooking his leg around Matt’s thighs, locking him in place. Matt hoists Foggy’s thigh higher, their pants tight and hot and he moans in complaint when Matt lets go, pushing open the door to Foggy’s bedroom.

Foggy scrutinizes Matt for teasing him. He kicks off the wall and slides between Matt and the doorway but he spins on his heels, dragging Matt in behind him. The door falls shut and locks stuffy air in his room, and as Foggy embraces Matt, somehow he seems rigid, his shoulders tense and Foggy kisses him, soothes away the knots in his shoulders. Matt’s breath becomes short through his nose and Foggy moves his lips to press a kiss on Matt’s nose. He cups Matt’s face, scans it, the agitation still evident in the slight furrow, in the wince of his eyes. Foggy combs Matt’s hair, wild from their encounter in the night and he trails his fingers down Matt’s neck, over his shoulders, down his chest, sculpting each bevelled muscle.

Matt’s chest rises and falls and Foggy listens to Matt’s heart beat fast. He feels a warm kiss press into his hair and a second later Matt pushes him onto his bed. A sickening feeling swamps him as he hears a horrible ripping noise, like he’d just torn his blankets simply by sitting on them. He looks away from Matt, and then he sees what Matt’s done. Underneath him, his entire bed is wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. He leans to one side and examines the tear, layers upon layers shred until finally he sees a glimpse of bedding.

“No fucking way,” Foggy says as he jumps up.

He looks around his room and excitement boils within him as he realizes everything, literally _everything_ is wrapped in wrapping paper. His desk, his chair, his computer. His books a sickening abundance of reds and greens on his wrapped shelves. He jumps over to his wardrobe and swings the doors open, exclaiming, “holy shit!” at the sight of individual clothes and shoes and hats and various other items of clothing all wrapped as well.

He comes back to the bed, Matt perching on the frame with a wicked grin on his face and Foggy gives him a peck on his cheek, “when the fuck did you get this done?” he asks.

Matt embraces Foggy, warm arms around his coated body and Foggy can hear his smile as he talks, “this afternoon, while you were out with Sara.”

“I wasn’t gone for _that_ long was I?” He asks perplexed, and as he has this new angle to look at in his room he spots more and more things wrapped up, the posters on his wall, the various items on his desk, even pens and pencils and his lamp, projecting an eerie green Christmas tree glow over his room.

“I had some help,” Matt admits, playing with Foggy’s hair as he speaks.

Foggy looks up at Matt, the grin a permanent feature and he blurts out, “holy crap though dude, I was _not_ expecting this.”

Matt laughs and holds Foggy, letting him rest his head on the nape of Matt’s neck. When Matt talks Foggy can hear the deep echo from his ear pressed against his chest, “ _Merry Christmas_ Foggy.”

Foggy grins, biting his tongue. He slips out of Matt’s arms and begins peeling off his coat, his many layers of sweaters and shirts and chucks them in the corner of the room with his pants. He kicks off his boots, Matt following suit and butt naked, they grab onto sections of the wrapping paper and shred it off until they get to the bedding. Matt stumbles over the mattress, the blankets fly up and bits of paper float in the air. With Matt huddling close to him under the warmth of the blankets, he feels like it’s truly Christmas. Snow and family and too much wrapping paper, unbelievable messes and his favourite person in the whole world, here in his bed.

Matt’s fingers waiver over Foggy’s shoulder before touching him, tentatively exploring his skin, the curves of his back and Foggy observes Matt’s beautiful concentration. He licks his lips before kissing Matt, his eyes open as he watches the way Matt’s face contorts in pleasure, the way his cheeks flush and nose twitches as their tongues collide. Downstairs he hears music begin and the swell of noise travels up to their level, fuelling his courage. He tugs the blankets down to Matt’s waist and he takes hold of Matt’s cock, moving his lips down to Matt’s nipples, perky and hard for him. Foggy worries Matt’s nipple in his teeth as he flicks his wrist, prompting Matt to arch his back, one leg bending to grant Foggy better access.

He watches the way Matt’s head rolls back on the pillow, neck stretching and he wonders if Matt’s ever been told how sexy he looks, because he does, and not just in this moment but _all the fucking time_. Matt fumbles for Foggy’s cock and he drags his fingers over Foggy’s shaft before wrapping his hand around tight, starting with slow jerks.

“I can’t believe you,” Foggy rasps, craning to nibble Matt’s ear.

Matt’s eyes flutter, “sorry?”

Foggy shakes his head and he finds the freckles on Matt’s arms, traces them into shapes as he speaks, “I’m just so lucky to have you, you’re a really, _really_ good looking guy,” Foggy chuckles, “I mean it Matt, you’re the most attractive guy in the world and you’re here in my childhood bed, _naked_ , and you’ve just played a prank on me! _Me_ , Foggy Nelson, the king of pranks!”

Matt laughs and pokes Foggy’s side mimicking Foggy’s words, “ _king of pranks_ ,”

Foggy sits up in his bed and reaches over to his bedside table, scraping away wrapping paper to even be able to open the drawer, “well, I am, don’t try and deny it,” he says, chuffed. Foggy pulls out condoms and a tube of lube. He unwraps the condoms, fixing one onto his dick before spreading the other over Matt’s, “it’s six to one Matt, the score says it all.”

Matt gulps as Foggy pulls the condom over his dick, and he catches Foggy’s arm when he’s done, “Foggy… tonight, I…” He takes Foggy’s hand and gets him to cup his ass again.

Foggy curls his fingers into a fist but his dick betrays him by flinching, causing his breath to hitch as he speaks, “you don’t have to… I mean, just because it’s Christmas you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do yet.”

Matt sits up and swings one leg around Foggy, pulling Foggy into his lap and he says, “Foggy, I want to.”

Foggy grasps Matt’s cock again, pumps it slowly as he speaks low, “okay, I’ll take it slow though.”

Matt nods and he squirts a dollop of lube onto his fingers, sitting up to kiss Foggy as he fingers himself. Foggy hears singing from downstairs, a chorus of horribly drunk Nelsons singing off beat and off tune and he drags his tongue over Matt’s lips as they kiss, gentle tender kisses a contradiction to the heat boiling in his dick. His fingers tingle as Matt moans into his mouth, he feels Matt’s slick fingers wrap around his dick and they shuffle on the bed, repositioning themselves, Matt’s legs hoisted around Foggy’s waist as he pushes his dick slowly inside Matt.

Matt arches off the bed, a heavy grunt at that first push, and Foggy feels light headed at the way Matt’s walls ensconce his dick in slick heat. He clenches his jaw, pulls out slowly and he peeks at Matt, sprawled on the bed, writhing and he stays with Foggy’s hips, not wanting to let go. Foggy pushes down on Matt’s abdomen, holds him as he drags his dick out to the head, then pushes in again, tantalisingly slow. Matt moans again and Foggy praises his obnoxiously loud family, masking any hint of sexual pleasure upstairs. He bites his tongue, trying to maintain the speed but exploring new angles, new ways to make Matt twitch and claw at the mattress.

Foggy drags his dick out almost all the way again, and this time Matt pushes back, longing for the touch and Foggy’s mind is blown to bliss, airy and light because Matt’s out of control, needy for his dick and Foggy teases him with it. He bites Matt’s knee briefly, boring into Matt and he wishes he could go on like this for eternity, each full dip a moment caught between relief and release and maybe he can, maybe he can keep the pace and go on and on. But Matt pulls at Foggy’s ass, pulling him and he mewls, “I can’t take it anymore, I can’t take it…”

Foggy pauses, “want me to stop?”

“No!” Matt barks, “no, go _fast_.”

Foggy’s not going to ignore a direct order and he hastens, careful not to slam, to not cause too much pain because yeah it feels good but there’s a fine line between pain and pleasure that he knows from experience. He presses on and as their movements quicken the tears of paper still caught around the mattress rip further and Foggy can see Matt trying to grin, ruined by each glass full, glass half empty. Foggy leaves Matt’s dick to secure him around his waist, feeling the blood pulsing between his legs and Matt’s hand finds his dick, jerking himself off.

Foggy breaks for a moment, his dick slipping out, throbbing in the air of his room and Matt whines. Foggy flips Matt over on his hands and knees and he presses open Matt’s hole again, sliding back in easily and he drops his head on Matt’s lower back, his arms stretching over his skin, sighing and moaning and Matt arches into him. Matt reaches for his dick, losing balance so Foggy shoos his hand away, takes his dick and pumps him in time with his thrusting. Matt’s sweaty and hot and Foggy’s mesmerised by the sight of his dick disappearing in Matt’s ass spread and puckered.

He claws at Matt’s back, an animal breaking free and he grinds his cock inside Matt, groans through teeth ground shut as he comes. And as if by miracle, a blessing of matched timing, Matt comes with him, shuddering and jerking as Foggy’s waves rocket through him, convulsing, wringing out his come into Matt. They collapse on the bed, a gust of wind floating more shreds of wrapping paper. Matt trembles in an afterglow of sex and pleasure and pieces of paper nestle in his hair. Foggy laughs and blows them out rather unsuccessfully, his breath not yet caught up with him.

They barely get a moment to pull themselves back into reality when Holly and Pater barge into Foggy’s bedroom, shouting at the top of their lungs. Foggy scrambles to get the blankets over him and Matt, cussing at the impertinence of his siblings.

Holly cackles at the top of her voice, “you popped his cherry! You popped his cherry!”

“Ugh fuck _off_!” Foggy yells still kicking the blankets to cover any inch of bare skin.

“You popped his cherry!” Peter chimes in, jumping around Foggy’s room clapping like a child.

“Oh my God no _cherries_ were popped, neither of us are virgins,” Foggy barks, slipping his hand in Matt’s under the covers.

“Not anymore,” Holly sings, leaping onto Foggy’s bed and stabbing the air as she shouts, “Matt pranked you, he got you good!”

“ _We_ got him good,” Peter corrects, picking up the pile of shredding paper and throwing it at Holly.

Holly protests by catching the paper and screwing into a ball, chucking it back at Peter. They squeal as a paper ball fight begins between the two and Foggy, fed up, marches out of his bed and pushes his siblings out the door.

“Ew, he’s naked!” Holly exclaims, fleeing with Peter in tow out the door.

Foggy slams the door shut and crawls back into bed with Matt. Matt wraps his arms around Foggy and for a moment they’re quiet. But the sounds of Holly and Peter roaring through the house like children makes them both laugh.

Foggy drops his head in Matt’s chest and asks, “ _why_ doesn’t anyone knock?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's support, it's been so helpful and i really appreciate it!


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